^^© 


FRENCH 

mnmm 

JOHM       IS 
AYSCOUGH 


^LIBRARY  "^ 

UNIVERSITY  0» 
CALIFORNIA 

1       SAN  DIEGO 


/ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/frenchwindowsOOaysc 


(k;  - 


/ 


By  JOHN  AYSCOUGH 

GRACECHURCH 

Crown  8vo.  $1.75  net. 
"Ayscough  has  never  given  the  public  so  interesting  and 
so  quaint  a  series  of  studies  as  are  embraced  in  this,  his 
latest  work.  .  .  .  The  portraiture  is  intimate.  ...  It  is 
graphic.  ...  It  is  more  than  a  noveL  ...  It  is  a  mosaic 
of  modern  life  with  jewels  in  the  setting.  The  vivid  imag- 
ination of  the  author  and  his  remarkable  literary  style  make 
of  it  a  study  that  is  entrancing.  Admirers  of  John  Ayscough 
will  readily  grasp  it  and  be  treated  to  a  Uterary  repast  of 
unexcelled  merit." — Tablet. 

MONKSBRIDGE:  A  Novel 

Crown  8vo.    $1.35  net. 
"A  well-bred  book,  softly  aglow  with  the  tempered  colors, 
the  placid  atmosphere  of  its  period;  a  bit  of  EngUsh  historical 
fiction." — N.  ¥.  Tribune. 

"Monksbridge  is  a  continuous  story,  and  a  good  one,  set 
in  the  atmosphere  of  'Gracechurch.'  ...  all  this  is  just  a 
background  to  one  striking  incident  that  takes  the  book  out 
of  the  worldly  class  and  into  the  first  rank  of  Catholic  stories." 

— America. 

LEVI  A  PONDERA:   An  Essay  Book 
With  Portrait.    Crown  8vo.    $1. go  net. 
"...  forty  brilliant  essays  ...  a  goodly  book  that  will 
put  the  Catholic  and  many  a  non-Catholic  reader,  deeply  in 
his  debt." — America. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO.,  NEW  YORK 


FRENCH  WINDOWS 


BY 


JOHN  AYSCOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF  "gRACECHURCH,"     "  LEVIA-PONDERA,' 

"monksbridge,"  etc. 


NEW  EDITION 


LONGMANS,    GREEN    AND    CO 

FOURTH  AVENUE  &  30th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 
39  PATERNOSTER  ROW,  LONDON 

BOMBAY,  CALCUTTA,  AND  MADRAS 

1918 


Printed  in  the  United  States 


2)et)fcation 

TO 

LADY  AUSTIN  LEE 

Dear  Lady  Austin  Lee, 

As  you  have  over  and  over  again,  while  these 
papers  were  appearing  in  the  Month,  spoken  and 
written  of  them  in  terms  of  warm  and  kindly  eulogy, 
I  am  venturing,  now  that  they  are  reappearing  as  a 
book,  to  ask  your  permission  to  dedicate  the  volume  to 
you. 

During  the  latter  portion  of  the  eighteen  months 
that  I  was  on  service  with  the  British  Expeditionary 
Force  in  France,  I  was  within  reach  of  the  hospitality 
of  Sir  Henry  Austin  Lee  and  yourself;  and  I  shall 
always  remember  gratefully  how  warm  was  the  wel- 
come extended  to  me  by  both  of  you,  and  how  steady 
and  untiring  that  hospitality  was.  Do  you  remember 
my  reading  one  of  these  papers  to  you  and  your 
friends?  I  resolved  then  that,  whenever  they  should 
appear  as  a  book,  I  would  offer  it  to  yourself. 

There  is  at  least  one  reason  why  the  slight  gift  should 
not  seem  also  inappropriate.  However  inadequate  as 
War  Pictures  (and,  indeed,  they  are  mostly  not  War 
Pictures  at  all,  but  little  vignettes  of  Peace  torn  off  the 
sterner  page  of  War),  they  are  sincere  and  reverent, 
though  very  humble  and  modest,  tributes  to  the  French 

V 


vi  DEDICATION 

and  English  soldier.  And  that  admiration  and  love  is 
common  ground  between  yourself  and  the  writer.  He 
has  been  asked  whether  the  scenes  and  characters 
described  are  fruits  of  his  imagination;  and  such  a 
question  is  not  unfairly  put  to  one  whose  other  works 
have  been  (with  the  exception  of  GracechurcJi)  pure 
fiction.  But  the  answer  is  No ;  every  episode  and  every 
character  is  drawn  from  reality  and  life:  nothing  is 
imaginary.  That  which  is  described  is  what  the  writer 
saw  and  heard,  so  far  as  he  has  been  able  to  translate 
into  words  what  eyes  and  ears  told  him. 

When  he  wrote  the  earlier  papers  he  had  no  idea  of 
an  extended  series,  or  that  the  patience  of  the  editor  of 
the  Month  would  stand  anything  of  the  kind ;  and  that 
is  one  reason  why  the  very  earliest  (and  in  many  ways 
the  most  interesting)  days  of  the  war  are  dealt  with 
much  more  hurriedly  than  episodes,  in  themselves  of 
far  less  account,  of  a  slightly  later  period,  and  the 
reason  why  many  other  episodes  of  those  earliest  days 
have  been  omitted  altogether. 

It  may  seem  that  the  putting  of  the  papers  together 
into  a  book  would  afford  a  specially  convenient  oppor- 
tunity for  the  filling  of  those  gaps  by  the  addition  of 
new  chapters,  which  might  pretty  easily  be  so  fitted 
into  their  places  as  not  to  appear  intercalary.  But  the 
author  neither  can  nor  will  attempt  to  do  that.  Rightly 
or  wrongly,  it  has  always  been  his  practice  to  publish 
what  he  has  written  without  furbishing  or  addition. 
And  were  he  now  to  turn  back  and  pick  up  those 
dropped  stitches,  to  himself  at  all  events  the  patches 
would  be  obvious  and  offensive:  he  could  not  treat  of 
those  now  far-away  days  without,  in  spite  of  himself, 
working  into   his   descriptions  later   experiences   and 


DEDICATION  vii 

feelings.  As  they  stand,  meagre  enough  and  patchy, 
they  are  at  least  honest  presentments  of  how  things 
struck  him  at  the  moment.  Added  chapters,  written 
now  but  dealing  with  the  quite  initial  phase  of  the 
great  struggle,  could  not  fail  of  being  tinged  with  later 
apprehensions. 

The  papers  do  not  in  the  least  pretend  to  be  a  com- 
plete detail  of  the  experiences  even  of  one  ignorant  par- 
ticipant :  they  are  pictures  clipped  almost  at  haphazard 
out  of  his  memory.  Much  is  quite  intentionally  passed 
over,  especially  any  episodes  in  which  the  writer  him- 
self bore  a  special  part. 

In  the  Month  these  pages  bore  the  heading  French 
and  English,  a  title  which  is  very  reluctantly 
abandoned ;  but  during  their  appearance  it  came  to  the 
writer's  knowledge  that  another  book  had  that  name. 
So  another  title  for  this  volume  had  to  be  chosen,  and 
that  of  one  of  its  chapters  has  been  given  to  the  whole. 

JOHN  AYSCOUGH. 


%*  To  the  Editor  of  the  Month  the  Author  offers  his  thanks 
for  permission  to  reprint  these  pages. 


CONTENTS 


I.  OBITEE   PICTA 

II.  A  PAEENTHESIS  OF  WAE 

III.  AT  CEOSS-WAYS       . 

IV.  ENGLISH  .... 
V.  NEITHEE  ... 

VI.  WAE  DOGS 

VII.  NOUGHTS  AND  CEOSSES 

VIII.  LOVE'S  LABOUE'S  LOST? 

IX.  PEENCH  WINDOWS 

X.  OBITEE  DICTA 

XI.  WEST    FLANDEES    . 

XII.  LOVE  IN  A  MIST     . 

XIII.  SILENCE    . 

XIV.  CHUTNEY 'S  MAJOEITY 
XV.  ON  THE  BEIDGE     . 

XVI.  FINIS 


PAGE 

1 

12 

32 

52 

68 

80 

94 

119 

134 

154 

173 

189 

209 

241 

262 

281 


VIU 


FRENCH    WINDOWS 


OBITEB    PIOTA 

Everything  seen  became,  at  once  to  him  wlio 
writes,  a  picture,  and  took  the  permanence  of 
a  picture,  that  mere  action  lacks.  Events  are 
transient,  and  only  assume  fixity  after  they 
have  passed  and  taken  their  impregnable  seat  in 
memory.  All  these  things  seen  seemed  a  part  of 
memory  while  still  before  his  eyes ;  and  from  first 
to  last  he  never  felt  like  a  real  man,  looking  at 
them,  but  as  a  man  in  a  picture — ^hundreds  of 
successive  pictures,  each  of  which  was  itself  a 
palimpsest :  for  the  first  intention  of  each,  in  the 
Master-Painter's  mind,  had  obviously  been 
''Peace,"  only  an  Imperial  maniac  had  super- 
vened and  crudely  over-painted  "War"  on 
every  one  of  them.  It  was  only  now  and  then 
that  this  utter  aloofness  of  sense  would  yield  to 
the  vehement  activity  of  sensation  that  there  is 
in  dreams,  the  shallowest  of  dreams  when  the 

1 


2  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

sleeper  knows  he  is  dreaming,  and  expects  to 
wake,  but  meanwhile  must  be  driven  through 
the  vagaries  against  which  he  protests.  At  those 
rarer  times  he,  this  reluctant  dreamer  of  war, 
groped  impatiently  for  the  hand  that  should 
shake  him  awake  and  give  him  back  the  sane 
reality  of  **  Peace.  .  .  . 

The  first  pictures  were  all  of  interminable  rich 
corn-lands,  brown-gold  in  a  splendid  harvest, 
endless  wealth  of  corn  that  never  should  be 
worth  anything.  The  men  who  had  sown  the 
wheat  and  cut  it,  who  had  bound  it  in  sheaves 
and  piled  the  sheaves  into  stooks — ^like  rows  of 
tents  along  the  horizons — were  all  gone,  and  to 
no  farmsteads  would  the  incalculable,  opulent 
harvest  ever  be  carried  home :  for  the  farm-lads 
had  gone,  changed  to  chasseurs  and  dragoons 
('^dragons"  our  English  fellows  call  them,)  and 
the  horses  had  gone  too.  So  there  the  sheaves 
should  stand  till  the  rains  rotted  them,  if  they 
should  survive  the  passing  and  re-passing  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  war-men,  houseless 
and  dog-weary,  who  would  seize  them  and  make 
beds  of  them,  or  little  shelter-houses  against  the 
pitiless  wet,  and  scatter  and  trample  them:  few 
would  survive  it,  for  every  field  would  be  a  camp 
in  its  turn,  many  taking  their  turn  over  and  over 
again,  till  each  frugal,  rich  field  changed  itself  to 
a  patch  of  mire,  a  parable  of  squalid  waste. 


OBITER  PICTA  3 

During  those  early  pictures  it  was  hard  to 
tell  whether  the  toothed  sky-line,  in  the  breath- 
less hot  dusk,  were  a  row  of  corn-stooks  (like  an 
endless  war-train  arrested  by  some  block  far 
ahead  and  incomprehensible  to  miles  of  waggons 
and  men),  or  really  a  war-train  like  corn-stooks. 
Often,  in  the  early  light,  when  dawn  was  re- 
arranging pictures  out  of  the  solid  ink  of  night, 
even  the  near  fields  would  seem  covered  with 
monstrous  parades  of  hideous  titanic  snails,  each 
corn-stook  standing  for  a  shell,  the  long,  level 
shadows  for  the  ugly  creeping  body. 

The  first  pictures  of  all  had  WELCOME  for 
title:  even  the  Havre  streets  had  that  name  at 
every  corner  of  them,  the  Havre  people  had  it 
in  their  eyes,  and  every  smiling  lip  expressed  it 
to  the  English  soldier  who  could  understand, 
then,  no  other  word  of  French:  "Welcome,  good 
Englishman  come  to  help  our  France  at  her 
need."  We  had  done  nothing  yet,  but  we  had 
come,  against  all  the  expectation  of  the  Imperial 
calculator  who  had  thought,  * '  England  will  never 
go.  Secure  in  her  selfish  island  she  will  sit  at 
home  and  bask  in  her  safety  like  a  purring  cat 
that  cares  for  no  outward  storm  while  her  own 
place  is  warm  by  the  hearth.  England  has 
nought  to  gain,  and  her  friend's  loss  will  never 
cut  her." 

But  England  had  come,  and  more  than  kept 


4  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

her  word.  Greater  love  no  man  can  show  than 
that  he  should  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend : 
and  England  had  come  with  that  supreme  proof 
in  her  hand;  so  welcome  and  thanks  was  on 
every  French  face  that  looked  upon  the  honest 
English  faces  and  read  there  the  promise  stiff 
English  tongues  could  not  translate  from  fact 
to  mere  vernacular  word.  And  very  proudly 
French  men  and  women  carried,  like  valued 
jewels,  the  cap  or  shoulder-badges  begged  of  the 
English  soldier-lad  as  he  went  laughing  or 
whistling  by.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  French 
will  keep  those  little  trumpery,  priceless  gifts, 
heirlooms  of  England's  fidelity,  for  ever  in  their 
families. 

Changed  now  from  a  toy  to  a  relic. 
And  gazed  at  through  crystals  of  tears. 

Need  our  War  Office  grudge  them? 

**Eh,  my  God!"  cried  many  a  French  lady  to 
him  who  writes,  "what  soldiers,  what  men  your 
English  lads !  Smiling,  singing,  whistling,  laugh- 
ing always,  new-shaved  and  *  coquets'  they 
go  to  meet  death  as  to  a  tryst — and  all  for  us." 

Then  the  long  train-journey  towards  the 
frontier — it  also  was  broken,  everywhere  there 
was  a  stop,  but  the  same  assurance  of  thanks  and 
welcome.  All  night  long  the  French  ladies  had 
kept  willing  vigil  to  bring  little  comforts  of  food 


OBITER  PICTA  5 

or  coffee  to  the  English  soldier  passing  in  the 
dark,  and  thank  him  for  his  going  on  their 
quarrel — no  quarrel  of  their  making,  but  forced 
on  them  by  the  enemy  tired  of  his  long  pretence 
of  peace — to  help,  so  far  as  his  one  life  could,  to 
hold  the  glowering  eagle  back. 

War 's  enmities  every  fool  can  understand ;  but 
what  friendships  war  begets,  and  how  immortal 
those  tragically-born  children!  Already  our 
English  folk  have  learned  wider  meanings  for  the 
once  selfish  word  of  Patriotism,  and  in  scores  of 
thousands  of  English  eyes  you  shall  read  now, 
<<  For  France  also  will  I  do  all  that  my  life 
can.'* 

At  the  big,  busy,  frontier-town  war  became 
first  fully  visible :  iron-shuttered  houses ;  silence 
of  manufactures  that  for  forty-four  years  had 
known  no  holiday;  a  frugal,  toilsome  people  all 
turned  idle,  in  a  clutch  of  suspense,  into  the 
streets ;  the  endless  lines  of  troops  and  transport, 
munitions  of  war;  and  no  trace  of  peace  any 
longed  visible  anywhere — it  all  spelled  the  word 
that  no  one  spoke,  *'  The  enemy  near  the  gate." 
Very,  very  soon  he  would  enter  by  it,  and  be 
wasteful  master:  the  long  legitimist  rule  of 
peace  and  frugal  comfort  be  changed  to  an  iron 
interregnum  of  alien  tyrrany.  All  that  evening 
the  pictures  were  of  moving  columns,  throttling 


6  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

every  road,  roads  along  which  a  hundred  years 
ago  Napoleon's  armies  were  hurrying  to  the  last 
fatal  tryst  of  Waterloo :  and  every  road  leading 
at  brief  interval  to  the  waiting,  disdainful  enemy. 
What  would  to-morrow's  battle  bring?     That 
day's  own  battle  was  as  yet  only  a  rumour,  like 
the  sting  of  a  spiteful  wind  in  the  ear — Mons. 
The  short,  crude  word  was  only  a  name  yet, 
with  no  clearer  meaning  than  a  cold  conjecture. 
The  tovm  seemed  very  long,  and  the  watching 
crowds  endless ;  their  faces  different  not  only  in 
contour  but  expression  from  those  of  the  Havre 
folk;  here   too  there  was  welcome,  but  more 
tense,  hungrier,  half-bred  betwixt  gratitude  and 
suspense.    Now  too  was  seen  for  the  first  time 
the   ugly   cut-throat   gesture,   to   be   seen   con- 
tinually henceforth,  of  a  hand  sharply  drawn 
across  a  gullet,  silently,  or  with  the  one  word 
'*  Demain!"  significant  invitation  to  the  English 
soldier  of  what  he  should,  in  the  gesticulator's 
mind,  do  to-morrow  to  some  German.    That  the 
gesture  was  a  woman 's  or  a  child 's  did  not  make 
it  less  grim. 

The  suburbs  stretched  such  long  arms  out  into 
the  unpastoral  country  that  one  hardly  knew 
when  they  had  changed  to  villages  huddled  up 
to  the  town.  But  the  villages  gave  more  material 
.welcome,  and  from  their  housei,  poor,  mean 


OBITER  PICTA  T 

houses  often,  there  were  continual  sorties  of 
women,  children,  old  men,  carrying  offerings 
to  the  marching  soldiers  from  England — coffee, 
wine,  apples,  sweets,  cigarettes,  slices  of  janamed 
bread — and  this  went  on  afterwards  in  every 
village  till  the  time  came  when  the  villagers 
themselves  had  nothing,  for  the  German  had 
been  there  and  taken  everything;  then  the  one 
possible  gift  of  water  gave  its  plain,  sad  mes- 
sage of  ruined  generosity. 

But  that  was  not  yet;  you  could  not  realize 
how  near  at  hand  it  was  on  that  sultry  Sunday 
evening.  At  Jenlain  the  noise  of  guns,  from 
Mons,  became  first  audible,  distant  and  vague, 
like  the  rumble  of  the  thunder  that  goes  with 
''summer"  lightning,  and  with  no  more  menace 
to  the  imagination.  At  Jenlain  the  first  picture 
of  a  camp  in  the  fields  made  itself,  a  groping 
picture  blurred  by  the  darkness,  in  which  men 
and  horses  and  waggons  hardly  stood  out,  but 
mixed  with  the  hot  night,  and  seemed  only  its 
shadows;  till  a  fire  here  and  there  splashed  the 
muffled  blackness  with  red,  and  showed  coppery 
faces  and  hands  with  no  bodies  to  them.  For 
our  officers  there  was  a  dinner-party  that  night 
— in  the  village  inn,  that  was  half  a  faiTu,  where 
the  stalwart,  wholesome  "patron"  and  his 
decent,  shrewd  wife,  comely,  friendly  and  active, 


8  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

bustled  to  show  what  they  could  do  for  the 
English.  Everyone  about  the  place  fussed  and 
ran,  cooked  and  talked,  and  set  places  round 
the  big,  clean  kitchen  table.  A  regular  meal, 
with  soup,  and  stew,  fruit  and  cheese  and  wine : 
and  it  was  eaten  under  the  smiling  eyes  of  the 
hosts,  who  thought  one  of  the  officers  too  young 
for  war,  and  one  of  them  (who  writes  this)  by 
far  too  old.  A  pretty-faced  lad,  with  girlish  blue 
eyes  and  peach-cheeks,  and  expression  of  soft 
innocence,  crept  to  that  old  oflScer's  elbow, 
nudged,  and  drew  a  confidential  hand  murder- 
ously across  his  own  boyish  throat,  whispering, 
^'Demain!    Aux  Allemands.'" 

The  inn-keeper's  nine-year-old  daughter, 
merry-eyed,  nodded  a  cheerful  approbation — it 
was  pleasanter  to  hear  her  father  bid  us  drink 
our  King's  health,  as  was  done  by  all,  standing. 
Poor  little  Gabrielle,  poor  father  and  mother, 
grandparents-^that  was  the  last  supper  to  be 
eaten  in  that  prosperous,  friendly  home  for  many 
a  long  day :  next  noon  it  was  a  flaming  ruin,  next 
afternoon  they  fled  by  us  on  the  road,  Gabrielle 
and  all  of  them,  with  pitiful  bundles  in  their 
hands — a  lump  of  bread,  a  blanket,  a  holy 
picture,  a  superannuated  dumb  canary  in  a 
cage. 

After  supper  came  the  walk  up  the  orderly 
village  street — all  to  be  disordered  havoc  before 


OBITER  PICTA  9 

another  night — and  our  first  bedroom  in  the 
fields.  Long  and  wet  the  grass  seemed,  though 
but  with  dew  and  mist,  and  very,  very  long  the 
way  home  to  England :  there  were  no  home  stars 
to  make  the  sky  friendlier;  there  was  no  sky; 
only  a  huddled  blackness,  crouching  over  us, 
smothering  down  on  us:  and  already  the  war 
seemed  one's  only  life,  within  which  all  former 
life  was  swallowed  up. 

Sleep  came  reluctantly,  unhandy  yet  at  pick- 
ing her  way  through  that  maze  of  blackness  to 
tired  eyes  that  looked,  and  longed  and  waited 
for  her  coming.  She  must  be  sole  guest  and 
cannot  brook  others:  and  another  was  there, 
firm-seated,  before  her :  the  one  weary,  ceaseless 
preoccupation;  the  tiresome  iterant  sense,  that 
did  not  amount  to  thought,  but  was  like  the  thud 
of  a  pulse — ^'  It  is  war."  The  weary  waker, 
staring  up  into  the  dark,  felt  it  between  him  and 
England:  no  calculable  leagues  separated  home 
and  him,  but  the  incalculable,  incomprehensible 
fact  of  war  that  flung  England  and  all  home-life 
away  into  an  immeasurable  distance,  that  left 
him  outcast  from  all  that  had  seemed  to  mean 
himself. 

It  was  impossible  to  get  any  answer  to  the 
question,  *'  What  are  they  in  England  doing  V 
They  also,  as  last  seen,  had  assumed  the  fixity 
of  pictures,  and  would  not  move,  at  any  bidding 


10  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

of  imagination,  into  newer  groupings,  jDresent 
occupations.  Faces  at  a  window  must  look  out 
at  it  for  ever,  in  the  same  smiling  anguish  of 
farewell :  waving  hands  could  never  turn  to  any 
other  occupation.  Like  Josue  's  moon  in  Ajalon, 
the  last  sun  seen  in  England  stood  still  for  ever 
at  the  same  point  in  the  heavens.  War  had  come, 
and  changing  everything,  had  frozen  everything 
into  permanence;  as  if  Memory  had  given 
sanctuary  to  all  familiar,  lost  things,  and  would 
no  longer  suffer  them  to  go  out,  and  move,  and 
live,  and  be  changeable. 

Between  the  present  night  and  all  yesterdays 
there  lay  a  gulf  so  impossible  to  bridge  by  any 
mere  effort  of  will  that  one  could  not  imagine 
it  wider,  deeper,  or  more  complete  and  impas- 
sable, if  Death  itself  had  already  intervened. 
Were  he,  in  fact,  to  come,  what  could  he  do 
more! 

"  Free  among  the  dead  ..."  How  simple 
and  comprehensible  that  ancient  dark  saying  of 
the  supreme  poet  had  suddenly  become.  All 
the  tiny,  innumerable  shackles  of  life  seemed 
snapped,  and  their  significance  fallen  into  in- 
significance. It  did  not  even  appear  easy,  or 
fully  sane,  to  wish  for  their  resuscitation.  So 
immense  an  emancipation — should  one  really 
desire  to  cancel  it  f 

Surely  Agag  had  meant  this :  and  must  have 


OBITER  PICTA  11 

been  besotted  had  he  been  willing  to  turn  back, 
and  have,  for  some  brief  respital,  all  the  bitter- 
ness of  death  to  drink  again  out  of  some  un- 
known, later  cup. 

So  sleep  stood  aloof,  and  waited  till  the  tired 
body  should  thrust  forth  from  the  tired  spirit 
the  vagrant  musings  that  teased  her  in  guise  of 
thoughts.  And,  ten  miles  away,  under  the  black 
mourning  heaven,  lay  an  already  martyred 
country,  her  silence  crying  aloud :  ' '  0  God,  how 
long!" 

And  the  sleepless  night  dragged  on  to  the  re- 
luctant dawn  that  hated  to  discard  her  decent 
black  for  the  staring  red  that  day  must  bring  to 
her.  And,  0  God,  in  Whose  Hands  the  hearts 
of  kings  are,  what  spectres,  red  and  black,  must 
Thou  be  crowding  around  the  bed  of  that  War 
Lord  who  claims  Thee  so  simply  for  coadjutor 
and  accomplice  !  If  to  the  innocent,  reluctant 
sharer  in  it  sleep  comes  so  slow-foot  and  un- 
willing, how  and  in  what  nightmare  fashion,  shall 
she  creep  to  his  bed,  who  whistled  war  out  of  its 
snarling  kennel  to  follow  him  afield  .  .  .1  Al- 
ways his  pet,  pampered  and  overfed,  it  had  so 
long  grown  used  to  its  master's  begging  tricks  of 
peace  that  it  hardly  could  believe  the  moment 
come  to  play  at  them  no  longer,  and  show  naked 
fangs  to  a  world  that  had  watched  and  dreaded 
when  the  reality  should  be  confessed. 


n 

A  PAKENTHESIS   OF   WAE 

The  men  were  whistling  "  Mississippi  "  as  they 
marched :  and  he,  listening,  tried,  as  he  had  tried 
a  hundred  times  before,  to  catch  the  slight, 
elusive  air,  and  whistle  it  too.  Nothing  easier 
than  to  whistle  it  tvith  them ;  but  he  felt  certain 
that,  if  they  should  stop,  he  could  not  go  on — 
even  if  it  were  decorous  to  go  on  alone — by  him- 
self, and  give  the  air  correctly.  A  pestilent 
tune  !  easy  and  impossible,  familiar  now  for 
weeks,  stale  even,  and  yet  refusing  to  cling  to 
memory  except  in  the  most  obvious  snatches. 

^'  It's  because  I  don't  know  the  words,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  There's  no  connection  in  the 
air,  and  I  haven't  got  the  words  to  connect  up 
the  bits." 

And  his  lips  rounded  themselves  to  whistle, 
and  a  young  French  soldier  watched  them  with 
an  odd  expression. 

''Halt  !" 

Something,  miles  ahead  perhapSj  stopped  the 

12 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  13 

way:  and  for  the  twentieth  time  in  an  hour  the 
whole  column  halted. 

The  whistling  ceased  and  the  men  fell  to 
chatting,  and  chaffing. 

"  Fiddler,"  said  a  Sergeant,  with  a  queer 
friendly  face,  to  a  babyish-looking  bugler, 
*'  you're  ashing  for  sore  feet.  I  hnoiv  you 
haven't  soaped  your  socks." 

a  There's  only  half  a  one  to  each  foot  to 
soap,"  urged  Fiddler. 

''  It'd  take  all  the  less  soap,  and  leave  all  the 
more  for  your  face,"  retorted  the  sergeant,  who 
seldom  permitted  himself  to  be  defeated  in  argu- 
ment. 

He  (the  Ancient  who  could  not  whistle  "  Mis- 
sissippi "by  himself)  went  to  the  roadside,  to  sit 
down  luxuriously  upon  a  heap  of  stones :  through 
the  long,  dusty  grass  a  field-telegraph-line  ran, 
hidden,  and  his  foot  caught  in  it,  and  nearly 
brought  ifim  do^vn.  The  young  French  soldier, 
still  watching  him  unapprovingly,  observed  the 
beginning  of  the  little  accident  and  almost 
smiled,  but  did  not  smile,  since  nothing  came  of  it. 

The  French  colunm  was  on  the  right  of  the 
road,  the  English  on  the  left,  and  the  young 
French  soldier  had  to  watch  from  the  other  side. 
He  turned  to  a  comrade,  of  his  own  nation, 
glanced   at   the   Ancient,   and  made   a   certain 


14  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

gesture.  The  Ancient  had  often  seen  it  before, 
and  had  always  hated  it.  It  was  brief  and 
simple,  and  consisted  in  a  sharp  drawing  of  the 
flattened  fingers  of  the  right  hand  across  the 
throat,  as  though  one  should  draw  a  knife  across 
someone's  gullet — not  really  one's  own.  To  as- 
sist the  imagination  of  dull  observers  the 
words  **  Aux  allemands  "  might  accompany  the 
gesture:  but  in  this  case  there  was  no  such  ne- 
cessity. Both  French  soldiers  perfectly  com- 
prehended, and  the  elder  nodded  a  quite  passion- 
less acquiescence  as  he  followed  the  eyes  of  his 
young  comrade  to  the  Ancient  across  the  road. 
The  Ancient  is  so  called  here  as  being  (for  his 
surroundings)  an  ancient  personage.  His  white 
hair  and  wrinkled  hands  had  nothing  to  do  with 
all  the  militant  youth  about  him :  and  he  seemed 
tired,  not  so  much  with  marching  as  with  the 
longer  walk  of  fifty-six  years  through  life.  One 
would  say  that  he  was  more  used  to  sit  at  writing 
by  a  table  than  on  a  stone-heap  by  the  roadside. 
He  saw  the  young  French  soldier 's  gesture,  and 
it  hurt  him  a  little,  for,  though  he  had  never 
seen  the  lad  before,  he  liked  him.  He  smiled 
and  stopped  himself,  not  wanting  to  seem  defiant 
of  disapproval.  To  cover  the  smile  up  he  lighted 
a  cigarette,  which  the  young  French  soldier  also 
disapproved — as  savouring  of  nonchalance. 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  15 

It  should  be  said  that  the  Ancient  wore  then 
no  uniform,  but  a  black  suit,  grey  with  dust,  and 
shabby  after  many  a  march. 

"  Quick  march  V* 

And  the  column  moved  on  again,  and  the  men 
began  to  sing. 

It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary, 
A  long  way  to  go: 
It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary 
And  the  sweetest  girl  I  know. 
Good-bye,  Piccadilly, 
Farewell,  Leicester  Square  ! 
It's  a  long.long  way  to  Tipperary, 
But  my  heart's  right  there. 

They  sang;  it  was  no  bawling  shout,  but  the 
clear,  clean  singing  of  hundreds  of  Irish  throats 
and  lips. 

To  many  of  them  Tipperary  really  stood  for 
home,  and  father  and  mother,  wife,  and  child. 
For  them  the  song  was  no  mere  echo  of  the  Music 
Halls,  but  a  hymn  of  home-sickness. 

Hundreds  of  times  the  Ancient  had  heard  those 
words  and  that  air:  he  remembered  the  first 
time,  and  always  will  remember  it  .  .  .  the  pant- 
ing August  night,  the  serene,  huge  harvest  moon 
staring  down  on  the  limitless  fields  of  peace 
across  which  the  comet-tail  of  war  was  dragging, 
the  choking  dust,  the  night-silence  violated  by 
a  clatter  of  war-noises,  shouting,  and  scraping 


16  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

of  wheels,  shrill  orders  and  counter-orders,  and 
the  moan  of  a  horse  that  could  do  no  more  for 
England  than  die,  as  the  bravest  and  wisest  can 
do  no  more.  Then  a  halt,  and  a  half -lull  in  the 
babel;  and  that  tune  and  those  words. 

There  are  sweeter  tunes,  and  finer  words :  but 
instantly  he  who  heard  them  for  the  first  time 
felt  their  grip  and  thrust  about  his  heart,  as  one 
feels  the  chill  there  who  comes  down  in  a  swing. 
Then  first  he  resented,  as  he  had  resented  scores 
and  scores  of  times  since,  the  inept  unv/orthiness 
and  vulgarism  of  the  fifth  and  sixth  lines. 
Piccadilly  and  Leicester  Square  !  Could  the 
rhymester  fit  nothing  better  to  his  wistful,  home- 
sick melody  than  that  ?  Could  nothing  racier 
of  Tipperary  rise  to  his  fancy  ? — as  though  a 
Moujik  soldier  should  begin  to  wail  of  Holy  Rus- 
sia and  slobber  down  into  a  lament  for  Parisian 
boulevards. 

And  yet,  and  yet  the  Ancient  could  never  hear 
the  soldier-voices  lifted  in  that  song  and  dare  to 
let  his  face  be  seen.  All  the  astounding  clear- 
ness and  simplicity  of  dread  war  lifted  and 
glorified  that  song  into  a  Marseillaise  of  Eng- 
land's fidelity  to  France,  the  war-march  of 
British  honesty  come  to  lay  down  its  life  for  its 
friend.  It  was  the  same  now:  the  song  never 
staled  or  grew  hackneyed:  each  hearing  of  it 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  17 

added  association  to  it,  and  tune  and  words 
brought  with  them  a  skein  of  pictures  more 
poignant  in  simplicity  than  any  war  that  any 
painter  has  ever  left  us. 

As  the  Ancient  arose  from  his  heap  of  stones 
and  went  back  to  his  place  in  the  column  the 
young  French  soldier  still  watched  him,  and  the 
bent,  white  head  did  not  disarm  his  disapproval. 
But  it  half  puzzled  him.  He  had  been  quick 
enough  to  see  on  the  old  face  a  sharp  struggle 
against  assaulting  emotion :  and  he  divined  that 
the  bending  of  the  head,  erect  enough  before, 
was  to  hide  the  emotion. 

*'  That  song,"  said  his  comrade,  as  they  also 
moved  on,  **  is  as  if  one  of  us  should  sing  of 
Paris." 

But  the  younger  soldier  was  meridional,  from 
the  valleys  under  the  Pyrenees,  and  did  not  care 
specially  for  Paris,  which  he  had  never  seen.  He 
gave  a  slight  nod  and  tramped  on  in  silence, 
wondering  why  the  old  man  whose  throat  he 
thought  should  be  cut  had  been  moved  by  that 
singing.  He  was  doubtless  a  prisoner,  a  German, 
and  probably  a  spy. 

The  Ancient  walked  on,  and  on  either  side  of 
him  rode  an  English  officer. 

**  One  of  these  days,"  said  one  of  them  to  him, 
**  you  will  walk  into  the  German  pickets,  and 


18  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

they  '11  shoot  you.  And  it  will  all  be  because  you 
wear  no  uniform.'* 

The  Ancient  laughed,  but  did  not  argue  the 
point  afresh.    The  other  officer  said : 

^'  I  think  that  chasseur  would  cut  your  throat 
now  if  you  lagged  behind  and  he  could  catch 
you  alone.  He  thinks  you  're  a  German  prisoner, 
and  wonders  why  on  earth  we  don't  put  you  out 
of  your  misery." 

The  Ancient  thought  so  too,  and  laughed  again. 
But  it  still  hurt  him  a  little,  for  the  French  had 
seemed  by  now  quite  an  old  friend,  and  one 
dislikes  the  feeling  that  a  friend  desires  one's 
death. 

The  song  went  on,  and  the  march  went  on, 
and  other  songs  followed.  Then  came  another 
halt,  and  another  order  to  move  on  again;  and 
this  time  the  Ancient  fell  back  a  little  till  his  own 
**  lot  "  had  passed;  the  next  "  unit  "  was  a  little 
way  behind.  So  he  walked  alone  in  a  nearly 
empty  stretch  of  road.  Not  quite  empty,  for  the 
young  French  soldier  had  lagged  too  and  was 
just  behind  him. 

*'  Walk  with  me,"  said  the  Ancient,  stopping, 
till  the  chassuer  was  abreast;  ''  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.    Do  you  mind  ? ' ' 

*'  You  talk  French  then  ?" 

*' A  little,  and  badly." 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  ,  19 

*'  I  find  you  talk  it  well.  You  pronounce  bet- 
ter than  the  English. ' ' 

"  I  am  English.  Yes,  I  pronounce  pretty  well 
for  an  Englishman:  but  I  lack  vocabulary,  and 
often  I  cannot  say  what  I  want  in  French,  be- 
cause I  do  not  know  the  French  for  it,  and  so  I 
have  to  say  something  else  instead:  something 
much  less  interesting.    That  is  tiresome." 

The  young  Frenchman  laughed. 

**  I  should  say,"  he  observed,  ''that  you  would 
be  able  to  say  just  what  you  wanted. ' ' 

' '  No.    But  I  can  say  this do  you  still  wish 

to  cut  my  throat  1 ' ' 

"  Monsieur  !" 

''  Have  you  changed  your  mind  ?" 

''  Monsieur  !" 

' '  I  think  you  have. ' ' 

"  Monsieur,  I  do  not  understand." 

**Ah!  My  French  is  worse  than  I  thought. 
Can  I  not  make  you  understand  that  I  knew  you 
wished  to  cut  my  throat  just  now  1 ' ' 

The  young  man  from  the  south  protested ;  but 
the  Ancient  only  laughed  at  his  protestations. 

"  I  wanted,"  he  said,  "  to  have  it  out  with 
you;  that  was  why  I  fell  behind,  hoping  you 
would  fall  behind  too.  No  doubt  it  was  an  ac- 
cident that  you  did  fall  behind.  ..." 

*'  Perfectly." 


20  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

"  Some  accidents  are  sure  to  happen:  I 
counted  on  this  one.  I  particularly  wished  to  see 
if  you  would  still  wish  to  kill  me  when  we  were 
alone  and  had  talked  together.  And  I  particu- 
larly wanted  to  talk  to  you. ' ' 

''Why,  then  r' 

''  Because  I  liked  you." 

* '  Though  you  supposed  I  desired  to  kill  you  ! ' ' 

"  I  did  not  suppose.  I  knew." 

*'  How  can  one  like  someone  who  wishes  to 
kill  one  ?" 

*'  I  don't  know.  I  was  trying,  just  now,  to 
understand." 

He  was  trying  still.  It  seemed  to  him  possible, 
that,  out  of  some  hidden,  perhaps  morbid,  cur- 
rent of  the  emotions,  a  man  should  have  a  pe- 
culiar attraction  for  another  man  who  desired, 
justly  as  it  would  seem  to  that  other  man,  to  be 
his  executioner,  especially  if,  in  the  estimation 
of  the  victim,  the  execution  was  really  mistaken 
and  unjust.  He  could  not  recall  any  instance  of 
such  a  victim  havng  displayed — on  the  scaffold, 
for  instance — the  least  animosity  towards  the 
man  from  whose  hands  he  was  about  to  receive 
death.  Eather  it  would  seem  as  though  the  very 
strange  relation  in  which  victim  and  executioner 
stood  created  between  them  a  subtle  tie,  clearly 
felt  by  the  victim. 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  21 

"  You  are  not  now  thinking  of  me,"  remarked 
the  young  chasseur. 

There  was  so  delightfully  human  a  touch  of 
boyish  pique  and  vanity  in  this,  that  the  Ancient 
laughed  aloud. 

*'  Not  of  you  personally,  I  was  trying  to  un- 
derstand the  difficulty  you  suggested.  But  why 
have  you  changed  your  mind  ? ' ' 

**  Monsieur  !" 

"  Oh  '  Monsieur  '  !  But  you  do  not  now  in 
the  least  desire  to  cut  my  throat.  If  we  were 
alone,  and  out  of  sight  of  everybody,  down  there 
in  the  woods,  you  would  not  think  of  it. ' ' 

**  You  are  English — one  of  our  good  friends." 

*'  Yes,  I  am  your  friend.  But  you  only  know 
that  I  say  I  am  English.  If  I  were  really  a  spy 
should  I  stick  at  a  lie  ?" 

*'  You  do  not  tell  lies." 

*'  I  don't  claim  to.  It  was  you  who  denied 
that  you  had  wished  to " 

*'  Monsieur,  will  you  not  forgive  that  betise  f 

*'  I  forgave  it  all  along.  You  are  not  stupid; 
you  must  have  seen  that  at  once. ' ' 

*'  I  saw,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  across 
the  fields  where  the  ungarnered  corn  stood, 
* '  that  you  liked  me,  the  moment  you  turned  and 
asked  me  to  walk  with  you.  And  it  shamed  me. 
There  was  no  Why.  I  had  only  wished  to  do 
you  an  injury. ' ' 


22  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**  I  don't  know.  It  would  have  been  an  injury 
to  yourself:  cruelty  and  injustice  are  the  worst 
things  one  can  do  to  oneself.  But  I  didn't  see 
that  to  me  it  would  have  made  any  difference." 

**  No  difference  1    To  be  dead  or  alive  ?" 

**  I  should  still  have  been  alive.  You  flatter 
yourself.  You  cannot  make  me  dead  or  alive. 
You  might  have  pushed  me  round  a  corner,  that 
is  all." 

*'  An  ugly  corner." 

**  That's  selon  :  it  depends — and  not  on  you, 
my  comrade.  Besides  the  best  bit  of  the  journey 
may  be  just  round  the  ugliest  corner. ' ' 

**  You  are  now  reading,"  said  the  youth. 

**  Yes;  out  of  the  book  one  has  been  writing 
for  fifty-six  years. ' ' 

**  You  are  fifty-six  years  old?  At  first  I 
thought  you  much  more — very  old:  and  now*  I 
have  been  thinking  you  young.  Your  words 
come  jumping,  light  on  the  foot,  and  they  jump 
into  me,  as  old  words  do  not." 

''  That  is  because  we  are  friends.  Friends  are 
all  of  an  age.  And  a  friend's  words  come  home 
to  a  friend's  heart  as  children  come  home  and 
sit  down  by  the  hearth  that  wants  them." 

They  did  not  look  at  each  other  as  they  talked, 
the  French  lad  and  his  new,  old,  English  friend ; 
sometimes  their  eyes  rested  on  the  same  place, 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  23 

the  horizon,  that  lay  higher  than  the  road  where- 
on they  marched;  otherwise  their  eyes  did  not 
meet.  But  they  kept  step;  and  the  cadence  of 
their  footfalls  was  the  pulse  of  a  deep  unison. 

Passing  a  cross-road  they  saw  there  another 
body  of  French  troops,  infantry,  waiting:  and 
among  them  was  a  young  French  priest,  a  volun- 
teer-chaplain, in  cassock  and  field-cap. 

**  Excuse  me,  one  minute,  I  want  to  go  and 
greet  him;  we  also  are  comrades,"  said  the 
Ancient,  and  he  made  off  quickly. 

The  young  French  soldier  from  the  south 
watched  their  meeting :  he  saw  them  shake  hands, 
like  old  friends,  though  neither  had  ever  seen 
the  other  before,  and  saw  that  they  spoke  to- 
gether with  easy  intimacy,  affectionately.  When 
the  word  to  move  away  came,  in  less  than  five 
minutes,  and  the  French  troops  marched,  the 
Ancient  and  the  young  priest  in  the  cassock 
parted  like  brothers  going  different  roads  to- 
wards the  same  duty. 

When  the  Ancient  rejoined  the  young  soldier, 
who  had  waited  with  a  sort  of  boyish  petulance, 
the  latter  said,  half  jealously: 

**  Another  friend  I" 

''Oh,  yes." 

'''You  knew  him  ?" 

"  Not  before.  But  he  is  my  brother:  we  are 
both  priests." 


24  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

"  Are  all  the  English  priests  like  you  ?" 

'  *  I  don 't  know  them  all.    I  hope  not. ' ' 

*'  Why  do  you  hope  that  ?" 

*'  Because  I  am  half  a  priest  and  half  a  poet: 
and  it  is  better  to  be  simply  a  priest  altogether." 

'*  I  should  like  to  read  your  poems." 

"  I  don't  write  them.  I  don't  know  how. 
Perhaps  I  am  too  happy." 

"  I  see  you  are  happy — though  you  can 
scarcely  help  weeping  sometimes.  Tell  me  a 
thing,  will  you  ?" 

* '  Anything  I  can. ' ' 

*'What  makes  you  happy  !" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and,  for  the  first 
time  almost,  the  lad  turned  and  looked  at  his 
friend.  He  was  blushing  and  the  young  man, 
who  was  a  soldier,  and  a  peasant,  and  a  gentle- 
man, was  ashamed  of  his  question. 

* '  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon, ' '  he  said  hurriedly. 
**I  am  impertinent." 

*'  That  is  impossible.  There  is  no  imperti- 
nence between  friends.  Only  I  hesitated,  because 
to  answer  your  question  I  might  seem  to  preach." 

*'A  priest  must,  sometimes." 

*'Yes.  But  I  do  it  badly.  It  seems  always 
as  if  everyone  must  know  all  one  had  to  tell — I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  your  name.  ..." 

**It  is  Constantin." 


A  PAEENTHEIS  OF  WAR  25 

**Well,  Constantin:  I  am  too  shy  to  answer 
your  question.    Have  you  ever  been  in  love?" 

"I  am  now." 

*'And  it  makes  you  happy?" 

**  No,  because  I  am  far  away — ^here  in  this 
ugly  war.    That  is  miserable — to  be  away." 

*'  I  also  have  been  in  love  all  my  life :  and  we 
are  never  away.    Always  together." 

A  whimsical  memory  of  a  word  from  a  great, 
homely,  simple,  genre  writer,  glanced  into  his 
ever  vagrant  fancy,  "Always  the  best  of  friends, 
Pip,  always  the  best  of  friends" — and  the 
Ancient  smiled  at  his  thought. 

**It  is  a  man  you  love?"  said  Constantin,  in 
a  voice  like  a  clear  whisper.  His  eyes  were  again 
on  the  high  horizon,  and  the  Ancient's  were 
there  too :  it  was  more  intimate  than  if  they  had 
turned  and  looked  each  into  the  other's  face. 
Against  the  yellow  sky  upon  the  ridge  there 
stood  out  a  long  black  way-post,  with  arms,  like 
an  empty  cross. 

*'Yes,  it  is  a  Man,"  the  Ancient  answered. 

**  And  between  you  and  Him  there  are  no 
quarrels  ?" 

**  None  of  His  making.  Mine  have  been  the 
ladder  of  our  intimacy,  each  one  a  step  upward 
to  something  more  like  knowledge.  To  Him 
they  could  make  no  difference;  He  knew  me  all 
along." 


26  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**  In  my  love,"  said  Constantin,  *'  there  come 
moments  when  it  seems  wisest  not  to  know  too 
mucli — only  to  be  blind:  none  of  us  are  perfect." 

' '  No,  none  of  us.  I  am  luckier  tlian  you,  hav- 
ing all  the  imperfections  on  my  side. '  * 

The  lad  pondered  this  saying,  and  presently 
said,  abruptly,  something  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it. 

*'  Should  you  talk  like  this  to  an  English  sol- 
dier ?" 

*  *  There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  English  soldier 
in  general.  One  talks  to  each  man  as  he  is.  To 
you  I  can  talk  thus — perhaps  because  we  never 
met  before,  and  shall  never  meet  again. ' ' 

**  I  shall  meet  you  again  if  I  can,"  said  Con- 
stantin, with  decision. 

The  Ancient  thanked  him  with  a  smile,  and 
said :  *  *  Whether  we  do  meet  again  or  no  we  are 
friends,  and  that  matters  more.  To  talk  is  not 
so  good  as  to  remember." 

**  And  you,"  cried  the  lad,  jealously,  **  will 
remember  me  as  the  fellow  who  desired  to  cut 
your  throat. ' ' 

"  I  shall  remember  you,"  the  Ancient  an- 
swered, "  as  you  are." 

One  of  the  English  officers  came  riding  back 
to  look  for  him.  He  laughed  as  he  drew  near, 
and  said; 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR.  27 

**  He  hasn't  stuck  Ms  bayonet  into  you  !" 

"  He  has  only  made  a  little  hole  in  my  heart. 
Do  go  away  again. ' ' 

"  It's  not  my  fault  if  he  cuts  your  throat," 

The  English  Major  turned  his  horse  again, 
laughing,  and  said  over  his  shoulder: 

"  I  did  not  understand  his  English,"  said 
Constantin,  *'  but  I  do  not  like  him.  He  came 
to  look  after  you." 

The  sun  setting  on  the  empty  cornfields  was 
becoming  marvellous ;  a  singular  grey-pink  light, 
half  pearl,  half  opal,  clear  and  yet  hard,  like 
porcelaine,  had  taken  hold  of  everything.  The 
Ancient  watched  it  with  a  wistful  tenderness, 
like  worship. 

"  There  is  no  one  to  carry  the  corn,"  said 
Constantin,  watching  his  friend's  eyes  to  see 
what  held  them. 

''  No  one." 

**  Is  it  not  sad  to  see  them  empty  .  .  .  those 
fields!" 

''  They  are  not." 

Constantin  looked,  as  though  he  had  been 
looking  along  some  wand  that  pointed. 

*'  You  see  someone  !"  he  asked. 

The  Ancient  nodded,  and  the  lad  answered 
himself. 

''  The  same  One  ?"  he  said.  "  The  Man  you 
love  ?" 


28  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

He  did  not  turn  to  see  if  his  friend  nodded 
again,  but  l;eld  his  eyes  on  the  far  horizon  that 
seemed  hardly  nearer  than  when  they  had  first 
looked  at  it.    Presently  he  spoke  again. 

*'  That  Man,"  he  said,  "  I  hardly  know  Him. 
I  do  not  do  many  sins.  But  I  hardly  know  Him ; 
I,  I  am  young " 

*'  So  is  He.    Eternal  and  always  young." 

"  And  I  am  a  man " 

''  So  is  He." 

*'  But  I  live  among  men,  and  them  I  can  love." 

Another  echo  smote  the  memory  of  the  Ancient 
from  a  poet  this  time,  one  of  those  poets  who 
had  been  able  to  say  for  him  the  things  he  could 
only  feel :  a  sad  echo  too. 

A  saw  God  sitting  above  me; 
And  I,  I  sat  among  men, 
And  I  have  loved  these. 

**  He  also  lives  among  men,  and  loves 
them " 

"  Why  ?"  asked  the  lad  abruptly. 

**I  often  wonder.  To  teach  us  perhaps.  In 
that  you  and  He  are  alike.  But,  Constantin,  if 
you  can  do  that,  that  difficult  divine  thing,  you 
can  do  the  other ;  it  is  much  easier. ' ' 

"  Easier  to  love  Him  ?" 

**  Ever  so  much.  What  shabby  turn  does  He 
ever  serve  us  f    When  He   is   preoccupied,   or 


A  PARENTHESIS  OF  WAR  29 

busy,  or  taken  up  With  others  ?  You  like 
me  r' 

**  Yes,  because  you  like  me " 

*'  Yes ;  but  you  might  come  to  me  and  find  me 
speaking  to  someone  else.  I  can  only  talk  to  one 
friend  at  a  time." 

*'  That  is  true.  I  should  not  care  to  talk  to 
you  when  you  had  to  try  and  speak  with  someone 
else  as  well.'* 

**  That's  the  difference.  One  always  has  Him 
to  oneself— in  all  this  crowded,  talking  world.'* 

* '  I  have  never  talked  to  Him. ' ' 

*'  That  is  not  His  fault." 

"  Nor  He  to  me." 

*'  Neither  is  that  His  fault:  it  is  your  mis- 
fortune. He  is  no  vulgar  pusher  of  Himself. 
He  only  follows  and  waits  and " 

"  Wliat  ?" 

**  Loves.  It  is  a  horrible  thing  to  love  and  de- 
serve love,  and  never  get  it.  That  is  His  story. 
I  know  you  can  pity  it.  You  saw  in  a  moment 
that  I  loved  you :  and,  though  I  have  never  done 
one  single  thing  for  you,  you  would  feel  pity  for 
me  if  you  had  not  loved  me  back." 

*'  Ah,  but  you  have  done  something  for  me. 
Ever  so  much.  We  met  by  the  roadside, 
strangers  out  of  all  the  w^orld,  and  you  saw  in 
me  a  silly,  brutal  fellow  that  wanted  to  kill  you. 


30  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

Yes,  it  is  true,  I  confess  it ;  and  at  the  first  sound 
of  your  voice  I  knew  jou  loved  me.  Is  that 
nothing  1  Who  am  I  1  You  can  see;  a  pioii- 
piou  of  the  south,  a  fellow  from  nowhere,  of  no 
account,  and  you — '* 

"  Do  stop,  Constantin.  It  is  impossible  you 
Can  see  so  much,  and  not  see  more.  You  wanted 
to  kill  me :  justly  as  you  thought — a  cruel  justice, 
though.  We  have  killed  Him,  not  as  a  spy,  and 
all  His  revenge  is  to  love  us.  You  asked  '  Why  ' : 
and,  God  knows,  I  can't  say.  There  was  a  saint 
once,  and  she  cried,  '  Of  a  truth  Thou  hast  made 
a  fool  of  Thyself,  Jesus  Christ,  for  Thy  love  of 
us.»  '» 

That  saying  smote  the  heart  of  the  lad,  and 
his  clean,  tender,  sensitive  mouth  showed  a  twist, 
like  pain.  His  eyes  and  his  lips  could  express 
pain  more  easily  than  mirth.  Him  also  the  Gali- 
lean was  conquering. 

"  She  was  a  saint,"  he  said,  **  but  a  woman; 
I  could  not  confess  to  her.  To  you  I  could,  be- 
cause you  are  a  man,  and  not  a  saint.  Look 
there " 

By  the  wayside,  at  a  desolate  corner  of  the 
road,  was  a  Calvary.     *'  Consider,"  they  had 
written  beneath  the  lonely  figure,  * '  if  there  be  a 
sorrow  like  to  my  sorrow. ' ' 
-    And  the  lad  understood  at  last  that  it  was  no 


A  PAEENTHESIS  OF  WAR  31 

plaint  of  pain,  no  outcry  against  cross,  and  nails, 
and  thorns.  Only  the  supreme  lament  of  un- 
loved Divine  Love,  lonely  and  uncared  for. 

*'  Let  me  confess  here,"  said  the  lad. 

And  the  old  man  in  the  shabby,  worn-out  gar- 
ments, road-stained  and  dusty,  sat  down  upon 
the  steps  of  the  cross,  while  the  dying  sun  red- 
dened again  those  agonized,  hungry  arms,  flung 
wide  and  high  above  him,  to  draw  all  things  to 
their  embrace. 

And  another  echo  struck  him.  .  .  .  **  With 
the  chords  of  a  man :  the  strings  of  Adam. ' ' 

But  the  lad's  eyes  were  no  longer  seeking  the 
Dead  Christ  on  the  Cross,  above  him;  they 
sought  the  living  Friend  whom  his  friend  saw  in 
the  fields  through  which  their  road  lay. 

**  Tell  me,"  he  pleaded,  *'  a  thing,  to  en- 
courage me.    Why  do  you  love  Him  so  much  f ' ' 

**  Because  He  has  forgiven  so  much,"  said  the 
old  man,  making  his  own  confession  first. 


Ill 


AT  CROSS-WAYS 

A  FLAT  village  sitting  at  cross-roads,  with  a 
biggish  church  in  the  open  space  where  the  ways 
met:  and  all  the  space,  and  both  roads,  jammed 
with  lines  of  troops  and  transport.  Beyond  the 
village  level  fields,  some  marshy  with  withy-beds 
that  in  England  would  have  been  likely  to  hold 
foxes,  and  some  green  with  the  beetroot-foliage ; 
not  many  trees,  and  any  there  were  in  long  lines, 
like  lines  of  march.  Far  and  low  horizons  with 
nothing  to  break  them,  and  of  the  same  dun  hue 
as  the  cross  sky.  And  mud.  That  was  the 
picture. 

A  dull  village ;  with  nothing  to  mark  it  off  from 
the  villages  of  yesterday;  and,  except  for  the 
soldiers,  no  young  men  in  it:  only  women,  chil- 
dren, and  old  or  oldish  men.  All  the  troops  at  a 
standstill.  A  discussion  between  the  officer  com- 
manding a  unit  and  one  of  his  Captains,  each 
armed  with  a  map  and  an  opinion  of  his  own :  the 

C.  0.  favouring  the  road  straight  ahead,  the 

32 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  33 

younger  officer  that  to  the  left.  An  Irish  mess- 
cook  demanding  of  a  woman  at  a  house-door  if 
she  had  *  *  any  Dooly  to  sell  ' ' :  she,  with  French 
acumen,  understanding,  and  producing  milk. 

Fiddler,  the  bugler,  smiling  on  the  civil  public 
in  general,  not  without  hope  of  apples. 

An  Army  Service  Corps  driver,  with  his  neck 
tied  up  in  flannel,  addressing  his  two  Belgian 
horses  in  the  purest  idiom  of  Munster.  He 
changes  their  names  daily:  yesterday  they  were 
Fairy  and  Flirt,  to-day  they  are  Ginger  and 
Blackstrap.  But  the  Irish  voice  is  always  the 
same,  and  it  expresses  a  dogged  conviction  that 
horses  can't  get  on  without  oats.  A  motor-cyclist 
dispatch-rider,  who  should  be  in  the  last  throes 
of  becoming  a  senior  wrangler,  and  is  actually 
a  corporal,  grim,  mudded  to  the  eyes,  and  yelp- 
ing *'  Keep  to  your  right  !"  dashes  through. 
The  group  he  splashes  opine  darkly  that  he  might 
as  well  be  a  spy  as  not. 

Nothing  else  is  happening,  or  may  happen  for 
the  next  five  hours.  On  the  other  hand  all  the 
troops  and  transport  may  have  melted  off  into 
the  grey  landscape  before  the  clock  in  the  church 
belfry  strikes  again. 

The  Ancient  looks  at  the  church,  and  makes 
at  it  through  the  crowd.  The  doors  are  open 
and  he  can  get  in.    Very  often  the  priests  are  all 


34  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

away,  gone  to  carry  their  rifles  somewhere  in  the 
long  line  of  defence  stretching  from  the  extreme 
south-east  to  the  extreme  north-West  of  France. 
Then  the  churches  are  locked,  and  the  keys  are 
with  the  mayor.  Here  the  priest  is  too  old  to 
serve,  and  the  church  is  open. 

All  the  wide  space  of  nave  and  aisles  is  deep  in 
etraw:  a  regiment  of  cuirassiers  were  God's 
guests  in  the  church  last  night.  They  went  away 
at  sunrise,  and  to-night  perhaps  another  regi- 
ment will  come. 

Over  the  entrance-doors  is  a  wide  gallery,  with 
quaint  pictures,  not  easy  to  understand,  painted 
on  its  front,  and  on  the  walls  behind  and  at  either 
side.  They  seem  to  refer  to  another  war,  all  of 
whose  combatants  have  passed  into  the  Great 
Peace  three  hundred  years  ago.  The  drawing 
is  stiff  and  harsh,  the  colours  rude,  but  no  doubt 
the  peasants  of  these  fields,  who  saw  them  when 
they  were  painted,  understand  them  well  enough. 

Bits  of  carving  in  the  walls,  and  at  the  pillar- 
heads,  hint  at  an  older  church  than  the  present, 
certainly  much  older  than  the  boastful,  dilapi- 
dated Renaissance  high  altar.  That  was  very 
gorgeous  once,  but  could  never  tave  been  very 
beautiful:  its  bulges  and  curligigs,  its  cupids 
(they  could  never  have  looked  like  cherubs)  all 
belong  to  a  bad  and  decadent  taste,  not  the  true 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  35 

and  sane  Eenaissance.  The  tabernacle,  huge, 
and  pretentiously  ornate,  sobered  only  by  time 
and  decay,  is  ugly  enough.  But  millions  of 
Communions  have  been  given  from  it,  and  its 
architecture  never  mattered. 

It  is  empty  now.  No  doubt  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment is  in  the  presbytery.  Our  Lady's  Altar 
has  a  forest  of  candlesticks  and  vases,  hand- 
some and  poor,  given  by  the  members  of  a  con- 
fraternity. St.  Joseph's,  at  the  head  of  the  op- 
posite aisle,  has  a  crack  in  the  wall  beside  it, 
into  which  a  burnt-sienna  coloured  slug  is  insinu- 
ating himself. 

Against  one  of  the  big  pillars  a  much  newer 
statue,  on  a  wooden  pedestal,  stands,  with  the 
tricolore  for  background.  On  a  lower  table  in 
front  of  it  are  candles,  and  to  some  of  them  are 
pinned  written  papers,  with  a  soldier's  name  on 
them,  or  *'  Priez  pour  France."  The  figure  is  a 
young  girl's  in  silvery  armour,  bareheaded,  with 
long  fair  hair,  and  patient  sad  eyes,  upturned; 
her  left  hand  holds  a  helmet ;  clasped  in  her  right 
is  the  ancient  Oriflamme  of  France — the  Blessed 
Maid,  Joan.  The  Ancient,  who  has  prayed  to 
the  absent  Master  of  the  tabernacle;  at  His 
Mother's  shrine,  and  His  foster-father's;  kneels 
to  beg  the  patriot-martyr  to  forward  those  piti- 
ful, tender  entreaties  pinned  to  the  candles  at  her 
feet. 


36  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

When  he  gets  up  again,  he  finds  himself  no 
longer  alone  in  the  big  church.  A  broad- 
shouldered  lad  of  twenty,  with  grave,  dark  eyes, 
in  a  cavalry  uniform,  stands  in  the  deep  straw 
just  behind  where  he  has  been  kneeling. 

He  nods  soberly  to  the  Ancient,  and  says: 

**  So  you  pray  to  her  V* 

*'  Do  not  you  ?" 

*'  I  was  not  praying  at  all.  I  was  watching 
you.    You  pray  to  her,  then  ? ' ' 

**  Did  you  think  I  was  pretending  ?" 

*'  No,  Monsieur.  But  it  seemed  to  me 
strange. ' ' 

"  And  to  me  strange  that  you  do  not.  You 
are  a  French  soldier. ' ' 

*'  Yes,  I  am  a  French  soldier.  It  is  that.  If 
I  should  pray  to  her  it  would  be  natural. ' ' 

'*  So  I  think.  But  you  leave  it,  it  seems,  to 
me." 

' '  And  you  are  English.  That  is  what  I  thought 
odd.  She  was  your  enemy." 

''  The  English  were  her  enemies.  She  is  in 
heaven,  and  no  one  is  her  enemy.  But  you  and 
I — we  are  on  earth :  and  we  are  not  enemies. ' ' 

*'  No.    Comrades." 

'^  Thank  you,  comrade.  In  this  place  one 
would  rather  think  of  that." 

The  stalwart  French  lad  gave  a  little  smile, 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  37 

very  courteous,  and  it  had  the  effect  of  a  bow; 
but  he  must  have  been  a  little  obstinate,  for  he 
said: 

'*  Yes,  we  are  good  friends  now,  your  country 
and  mine.  But  then;  when  she  was  alive,"  and 
he  turned  a  thumb  towards  the  statue,  and  shook 
his  curly  head  to  complete  his  sentence. 

**  She  is  alive,"  the  Ancient  objected. 

**  But  your  people  killed  her." 

"  Some  of  my  people  (and  some  of  yours,  I 
think,  killed  all  they  could.  Not  her.  No  one 
can  kill  you  or  me. ' ' 

*  *  Some  German  may  kill  us  both. ' ' 

**  Your  young  body,  and  my  old  one.  That's 
all.  It's  no  great  triumph.  It's  only  doing  the 
work  of  some  disease,  or  some  unskilled  doctor, 
or  of  mere  old  age,  before  the  time;  I  mean  a 
little  sooner  than  one  had  thought. ' ' 

The  cuirassier  took  his  large  hands  out  of  the 
pockets  of  his  loose,  red  riding-breeches.  I  wish 
there  was  a  word  for  that  soft,  unblatant  colour, 
which  is  certainly  not  scarlet,  nor  crimson,  nor 
cherry-colour :  there  are  some  geraniums  almost 
of  the  tint,  or  they  would  seem  so  if  they  could 
fade  a  little  without  witherng. 

''  Monsieur,"  said  the  soldier,  **  I  do  not  feel 
like  that.  You  speak  of  your  body  as  if  it  were 
of  no  account. ' ' 


38  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

"  My  body  isn't  of  much.  There's  not  much 
of  it,  and  it  isn  't  interesting.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  think  it  was  I.'* 

''  Well,  mine  is  me." 

*'  I  hope  not." 

"  Why,  then  !  What  fault  have  you  to  find 
with  it  ?" 

*'  None,  as  your  body.  It  is  strong,  and 
healthy  I  should  say,  and  of  a  good  shape.  And 
the  face  at  the  top  of  it  is  all  right.  I  find  it 
easy  to  talk  to  your  face.  But  it  would  be  im- 
possible if  that  were  all.  One  could  as  easily 
talk  to  a  dead  wall  with  a  carved  head  in  stone 
on  it.  It  is  to  you  one  can  speak — because  there 
is  something  else  besides  your  body  and  your 
face." 

''  You  mean,  perhaps,  my  soul." 

''  Certainly  I  do." 

**  Eh,  well  !  My  soul.  Monsieur,  I  am  twenty 
years  old  and  I  have  not  met  it." 

"  An  inhospitality  !  If  I  went  to  your  house 
— where  is  it  ? " 

**  Near  St.  Maximin;  I  am  Provengal." 

*'  Of  the  poets'  country  !  Well,  if  I  went  to 
your  house,  and  you  were  there,  would  you  ignore 
my  presence  ?" 

**  Monsieur,  I  should  be  honoured  by  your 
visit." 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  39 

**  Just  a  chance  visit,  of  an  old  stranger,  with 
no  claim  upon  you.  But  I  would  not  risk  it — 
I  should  tire  of  waiting  twenty  years  to  meet 
you. ' ' 

''  But,  Monsieur,  that  is  different.  I  can  see 
you:  no  one  has  ever  seen  my  soul." 

''  If  so  it  is  your  fault.  You  must  have  been 
hiding  it — even  from  yourself. ' ' 

**  Can  you  see  it  f " 

'  *  I  am  trying. ' ' 

"  Sans  succes  f" 

*  *  No.  There  are  glimpses :  in  spite  of  your 
obstinacy. ' ' 

*'  You  think  I  am  obstinate  ?" 

"  I  am  sure." 

**  "Well,  yes.  That  is  part  of  my  character. 
So  they  say  at  home." 

It  was  so  obvious  that  the  young  Provencal 
enjoyed  talking  of  himself  that  it  even  struck 
him. 

**  Monsieur,"  he  said,  abruptly,  **  I  am  wast- 
ing your  time." 

''  Does  that  mean  you  are  tired  of  talking  to 
me?  " 

**  No.  To  the  contrary.  It  is  interesting:  one 
can  understand — you  talk  French  perfectly." 

*  *  That  is  not  true :  I  hope  it  is  equally  untrue 
about  your  soul.     I  happen   to    speak   French 


40  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

quckly  but  ill.  I  use,  you  perceive,  no 
idioms. ' ' 

"  *  Idioms  '  are  '  private  expressions,'  are  they 
not  ?"  The  young  soldier  remarked  with  another 
little  smile. 

''  In  that  sense  I  use  idioms — but  my  own,  not 
those  of  France.  However,  if  I  can  make  you 
understand,  it  does  not  matter.'* 

**  I  understand,  and  I  like  this  talk — one  is 
tired  of  the  war,  and  the  war,  and  the  war. ' ' 

**  I  would  rather  talk  of  Peace.  For  I  know 
nothing  about  war. ' ' 

**  You  are,  I  think,  an  interpreter." 

*  *  No.    I  am  a  chaplain. ' ' 

**  Oh,  I  knew  you  were  a  priest.  Are  you  a 
chaplain  only  for  the  war,  or  in  permanence  ?" 

*'  I  am  always  a  chaplain.  I  belong  to  our 
Army. ' ' 

"  With  a  grade,  is  it  not  ?" 

*' Yes;  of  Colonel." 

*'  Well,  my  Colonel,  let  us  go  on  talking.  Per- 
haps I  am  indiscreet  asking  so  many  ques- 
tions ?" 

'*  Not  at  all.  But  do  not  say  *  My  Colonel  '  : 
I  am  not  that;  our  own  soldiers  call  me 
*  Father.'  " 

**  You  are,  then,  a  monk." 

**  No.     I    have    not    that    honour.      Only    a 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  41 

secular  priest.  But  our  people  think  all  priests 
their  Fathers." 

''You  called  me  once  'Comrade.'  I  liked 
that.  I  may  call  you  'My  Father  and  Com- 
rade' r' 

"Yes:  and  'friend.'  " 

One  of  the  large  hands  was  held  out  at  once 
very  courteously  and  friendly;  and  they  shook 
hands,  close  by  the  shrine  of  the  Blessed  Patriot- 
Maid. 

"Our  entente  cor  dials /'  said  the  Frenchman, 
smiling. 

If  nothing  else  ever  came  of  it,  it  did  not  seem 
to  the  Ancient  that  it  would  have  been  a  waste 
of  time.  Every  Englishman  and  Frenchman 
making  friends  seemed  to  him  a  sweetening  of 
the  acidities  of  war. 

"May  I  know  my  friend's  name?"  asked  the 
Provencal.    "Mine  is  Pertuis  Jacques." 

"And  the  only  part  of  mine  you  will  ever  be 
able  to  pronounce  is  Jean." 

And  the  Ancient  pulled  the  envelope  of  a 
letter  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  the  lad. 
Jacques  looked  firmly  at  it,  but  confessed  that 
it  was  hopeless. 

"  However,"  he  said,  "if  I  may  I  mil  keep  this 
— in  memory  of  my  English  priest." 

"  Have  you  many  priest-friends  ?" 


42  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

"None." 

**Your  fault,  Jacques." 

*' Perhaps." 

**No.  Certainly.  Thousands  are  your  com- 
rades in  this  war.    You  must  have  met  many." 

**Yes.  Monsieur,  they  are  admirable  France 
is  proud  of  them.  They  are  the  most  brave,  the 
most  devoted." 

**  Thank  you,  Jacques.  I  am  not  French, 
though  I  love  every  field  of  France  as  if  I  had 
been  born  on  it.  But  you  praise  the  high 
courtiers  of  my  own  King." 

**It  is  a  wonderful  thing,"  the  young  man  said, 
gravely,  with  an  odd  respect,  *'this  Catholic 
Church  of  ours.  I  am  a  bad  Catholic,  as  you 
see ;  nevertheless,  I  am  proud  of  these  priests  of 
ours,  not  only  because  they  are  French  and  I  am 
French ;  you  too,  English,  feel  as  I.  If  I  praised 
you,  you  would  not  be  pleased " 

**You  could  not.    It  would  be  bad  manners." 

**Ye8.  But  it  pleases  you  to  hear  them 
praised.  Because  they  are  more  your  brothers 
than  if  they  were  of  your  nation  and  not  priests. " 

*'Yes,  Jacques;  it  is  a  wonderful  thing  this 
Catholic  Church  of  ours — that  makes  even  her 
children  who  try  not  to  be  good  so  good  in  spite 
of  themselves." 

*'You  think  I  try  not  to  be  good?" 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  43 

**You  try  to  be  deaf  and  blind. ..." 

* '  And  you  think  me  good ! " 

''Dear  Jacques,  I  think  God  made  you,  and 
that  He  ;will  not  let  His  great  work  be  spoiled 
because  a  wayward  lad  is  obstinate  and  will  not 
see  what  a  great  work  it  is." 

The  young  soldier  was  sitting  down  now  in  the 
deep  straw,  his  back  almost  turned  to  the  statue 
of  the  Maid;  the  Ancient,  half -kneeling,  half- 
sitting,  had  his  face  to  it.  Through  one  of  the 
large,  plain  windows  a  ragged  glint  of  pale  sun- 
light smote  in  across  the  empty  church,  and 
touched  the  face  of  the  statue.  The  lips  seemed 
to  express  a  more  tender  patience. 

The  lad  picked  up  a  straw  and  played  with  it ; 
sometimes  looking  down ;  then,  lifting  his  sombre 
eyes,  met  the  old  priest's  with  them,  and  he 
threw  the  straw  away. 

**Eh,  but  I  am  bored,''  he  said. 

''With  me?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  tell  you  this  interests  me.  But 
I  am  bored.    It  is  the  war." 

"I  think  not,  Jacques." 

"If  there  were  fighting;  but  you  know  how 
it  is " 

"Yes.  I  know  how  it  is.  It  is  not  the  war. 
Fighting  would  make  you  forget  it,  no  doubt. 
But  it  is  you  who  bore  yourself." 


44  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**Tliat  is  true." 

*'I  knew  it  was.  What  one  cannot  hide  from 
oneself  one  can  never  hide  from  a  friend.'* 

*'Why  then  do  you  say  I  am  bored  f" 

** Because  of  this — stupidity  of  yours." 

Jacque  's  clear,  olive-brown  face  flushed  a  little. 

*'You  do  not  think  me  intelligent,  then?"  he 
said,  with  patent  disappointment. 

*^God  made  you  so.  This  stupidity  is  half  an 
affectation,  half  a  bad  habit." 

*'I  have  other  bad  habits." 

*'Very  likely.  They  generally  like  to  have 
plenty  of  company." 

*' Shall  I  tell  you  themr' 

**No,  Jacques.  I  am  not  hearing  your  con- 
fession. But  I  will  say  this — you  find  them 
tedious  masters." 

'*I  think  all  masters  are  tedious.  One's  mas- 
ter says  '  Go  there '  when  one  wishes  to  go  another 
way;  and  'Do  this'  when  one  has  meant  to  do 
that — or  nothing. ' ' 

''Only  when  he  and  you  are  of  two  minds. 
So  bad  men  do  not  find  the  De\il's  orders  tedious. 
That  shows  a  thing — ^you  are  bored  to  death 
doing  what  he  tells  you.    You  are  not  bad  yet." 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  lad,  with  the  straw 
between  his  teeth  again,  "when  I  was  good 
enough.    Can  you  figure  that  ? ' ' 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  45 

**Very  easily.  It  requires  no  great  imagina- 
tion. 'Good  enough' — though.  Enough  for 
whom?" 

''You  must  settle  for  yourself  what  I  meant," 
said  the  lad,  half  wistfully. 

"I  suppose  you  meant  good  enough  for  God. 
Now  you  are  not  even  good  enough  for  yourself. '  * 

* '  Yet  a  while  ago  you  called  me  good  I ' ' 

"You  must  settle  for  yourself  what  I  meant." 

The  Provencal  smiled  and  put  his  hands  down 
in  his  lap. 

"We  are  fencing,"  he  said.  "You  want  to 
say  things  and  are  too  shy.  And  I  want  to  hear 
them,  and  am  too  shy  to  ask. '  * 

"Yes,  I  am  shy.  But  more  than  that.  I  am 
afraid. '  * 

"Afraid!" 

"  Yes.  Of  saying  the  wrong  thing.  Because 
I  am  stupid." 

"You  also!    I  thought  it  was  I. " 

' '  You  and  I  both.  In  different  fashions.  Mine 
is  the  stupidity  of  not  knowing  how  to  say  what 
I  know  is  true ;  yours  that  of  refusing  to  admit  a 
truth  that  you  know  is  there." 

"What  truth?" 

"That  your  body  is  not  you.  When  you 
please  it,  it  does  not  please  you.  That  is  what 
you  mean  when  you  say  'Eh,  I  am  bored.'  " 


|6  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

*'You  have  settled  what  I  meant!" 

And  again  the  grave,  dissatisfied  eyes  softened 
with  a  friendly  smile. 

Up  in  the  tower,  high  over  their  heads,  there 
came  a  grinding,  clanking  onise.  The  clock  was 
going  to  strike. 

**We  have  talked  a  long  while,"  said  the 
Ancient.  ''Perhaps  my  people  have  gone  on, 
and  I  shall  have  to  try  to  find  and  follow  them. 
I  suppose  we  must  stop  talking " 

*'You  are  sorry?" 

**Yes.  Because  it  is  for  ever.  I  did  not  come 
in  here  to  look  for  you,  nor  you  to  find  me.  But 
we  have  met,  and  we  are  friends.  And  I  hate  to 
see  my  friends  no  more." 

"You  are  sure  we  shall  meet  no  more?"  asked 
the  lad,  and  he  smiled,  not  flippantly,  with  a 
lifted,  pointing  finger. 

'^Ahf  Jacques  I  Who  can  tell?  You  may 
become  a  saint,  and  God  knows  what  I  may 
become.  I  meant  here  on  this  earth,  in  this 
war. '  * 

"I  knew  what  you  meant.  But — stay  a  little 
longer.    We  have  settled  nothing." 

The  Ancient  knew  it  was  a  bribe,  but  he  did 
not  mind  being  bribed.  After  all  no  one  can 
do  two  things  at  once,  and  there  might  be  some- 
thing to  do  here. 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  17 

**No,  we  have  settled  nothing.  We  are  not 
likely  to." 

**  I  have  discouraged  youl"  said  the  young 
soldier — he  had  a  kind  heart.  ''That  makes 
me  sorry.    It  is  a  pity  I  am  not  different." 

*'It  is  a  pity  we  are  not  all  of  us  different. 
No,  Jacques,  you  have  not  discouraged  me. 
Did  you  think  me  so  conceited  as  to  imagine  that 
a  word  or  two  of  an  old,  strange  man  could  alter 
a  young  man's  established  thought?" 

''  I  did  not,"  the  Provencal  answered,  simply, 
** think  you  conceited.  Perhaps,"  he  added, 
gently,  in  a  very  low,  plain  voice,  ''perhaps  it  is 
I  who  am  conceited." 

"Listen,  Jacques!  There  would  be  no  conceit 
in  your  refusing  to  make  much  account  of  what 
a  chance  stranger  chose  to  say  to  you — unknown, 
uninvited  ..." 

"Not  uninvited,"  the  young  man  protested, 
holding  out  an  interrupting  hand.  "I  have 
been  inviting  you  all  the  time. ' ' 

"I  am  glad.  Still  you  had  no  need  to  listen 
to  me :  if  you  would  listen  to  a  Voice  that  never 
stammers,  nor  makes  mistakes,  that  is  not  old, 
but  a  Young  Man's,  who  understands  all  that  I 
can  only  guess  at  stumblingly,  who  understands 
you  much,  much  better  and  gentlier  than  you 
understand  yourself.  ..." 


48  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

From  the  great  chancel-arch  there  hung  down, 
high  over  both  their  heads,  a  plain  huge  cross, 
and  the  Ancient  tried  not  to  look  towards  it,  but 
the  image  of  the  dying  Young  Man  upon  it,  who 
looks  thence  to  draw  all  things  to  Himself,  drew 
his  eyes  too. 

"The  Christ!"  whispered  the  lad,  refusing  to 
let  his  own  eyes  follow  there.  ^^Ee  will  be  my 
Judge. ' ' 

"Not  till  you  have  utterly  condemned  your- 
self." 

The  young  man  shuddered. 

"Afraid?  Afraid  of  Himf'  cried  the  old 
priest.  "Afraid  of  being  judged  by  Him?  I 
am  not  then.  I  should  be  afraid  to  be  judged 
by  you.  You  who  say,  anyway,  that  you  do  not 
even  try  to  be  good ;  you  who  must  pretend  that 
goodness  is  impossible — a  counterfeit  and  show, 
a  cheat ;  you  would  demand  of  every  poor  priest 
simple  perfection,  and  condemn  us  because  we 
are  not  angels  but  men.  I  would  not  be  judged 
by  you:  nor  by  any  man,  not  even  by  a  saint. 
Only  absolute  Perfection  and  Omniscience  could 
be  tolerable  in  one's  judge.  If  you  are  afraid  it 
is  because  you  have  forgotten  Him. ' ' 

"I  seemed  to  know  once— do  you  think  any 
Frenchman  forgets  the  day  of  his  First  Com- 
munion ?" 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  49 

''Many  try  to.  Many  pretend  to  have  suc- 
ceeded." 

*'I  will  not  pretend.  Always  I  remem- 
ber." 

''Memory  is  a  part  of  oneself.  Nothing  re- 
membered is  lost  to  oneself.  A  man  cannot  lay 
aside  his  arms  or  his  heart  by  refusing  to  acknow- 
ledge their  presence  or  function.  Tell  me  this 
other  part  of  you." 

"There  is  nothing  great  to  tell.  Only  I 
remember  it.  He  was  real  then.  But  He  is  a 
Memory  only,  now." 

"When  a  man  who  has  seen  the  King  becomes 
blind  the  King  is  only  a  memory  to  him.  He 
was  not  more  real  while  the  man  who  has  fallen 
blind  could  see  him." 

The  young  soldier  never  failed  to  listen^  nor 
ever  failed  to  understand.  But  a  wayward  twist 
of  obstinacy  clutched  him,  and  he  said,  after  the 
twentieth  part  of  a  moment's  weighing  of  what 
the  Ancient  had  said: 

' '  You  forget  I  am  a  Republican. ' ' 

"Did  I?  I  only  remembered  perhaps  that 
we  are  both  men,  and  men  have  not  cast  aside 
the  true  images  of  poetry  when  they  have  cast 
out  their  kings." 

' '  Comrade — you  are  not  angry  that  I  like  best 
that    title?      I   beg   your    pardon.      If    I    am 


50  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

Eepublican  you  at  least  are  the  subject  of  a 
Monarchy. ' ' 

*'I  am.  Of  the  oldest  conceivable.  Of  a 
King  even  you  have  not  dethroned,  though  you 
are  squandering  yourself  in  an  agonizing  pre- 
tence of  rebellion.  St.  Paul  cried  out  in  anguish : 
*The  evil  that  I  would  not  that  I  do:  the  good 
that  I  would  I  do  not. '  But  in  the  beginning  he 
was  different.  Then  it  was  the  evil  that  he  would 
not  he  tried  to  do;  he  was  young  then.  But 
that  other  young  Man  you  are  afraid  of  met  him 
in  the  way  and  saved  him  from  tearing  himself 
to  rags  of  folly.  Good-bye,  Jacques.  Alas,  alas 
it  must  be  good-bye.  I  must  go.  And  here  in 
this  war  you  and  I  will  meet  no  more:  but  you 
and  he  will  meet.  You  have  met.  His  Wisdom 
will  be  stronger  than  your  silliness.  Omnia 
vincit  amor.  In  that  supreme  combat  He  is 
Omnipotent.  He  has  looked  on  you  and  loved 
you :  and  you  will  be  ashamed  to  be  proud  still, 
face  to  face  with  that  infinite  humility.  ..." 

All  the  time,  since  the  clock  had  struck,  they 
had  slowly,  with  many  stoppings,  been  moving 
down  the  empty  church  towards  the  door.  They 
had  reached  it  now,  and  they  passed  out  by  it 
together.    Most  of  the  troops  were  gone. 

''That  way,  Monsieur!'*  a  good-natured 
woman,  who  had  seen  the  priest  go  in,  called 


AT  CROSS-WAYS  61 

out  to  liim,  from  her  door,  pointing  along  the 
road  to  the  left. 

Jacques  watched  him  follow  across  the  deep 
mud  of  the  open  space :  very  deep  mud,  in  which 
the  Ancient  stumbled  once,  his  ungainly  boot 
catching  against  a  big  stone  hidden  in  the  mire. 
The  young  man,  with  a  smile  half  wistful,  half 
whimsical,  wholly  gentle  and  kindly,  watched 
the  hurrying  old  figure,  round-shouldered,  and 
the  white  hair  (overdue  for  cutting),  and  the 
homely,  ruddy  face,  as  it  turned  to  smile  Fare- 
well. And  he  confessed  to  himself,  for  he  was 
frank  and  honest,  with  all  his  petulant,  young 
perversity — 

"An  ugly  body.  Unless  there  was  something 
in  it  that  one  cannot  see  I  would  not  have  talked 
all  this  while  to  it.  I  would  not  care  even  to  see 
it  again.  But  I  do  care.  And  I  have  nothing 
to  do.  He  does  not  know  there  are  cross-roads 
again  half  a  kilometre  out  there.  I  will  go  with 
him — to  say  Au  Revoir — as  far  as  the  cross- 
roads.   Ay,  and  farther,  perhaps." 

Perhaps. 

Does  one  expect  to  see  right  along  every  road 
to  its  ultimate  goal  beyond  the  horizon,  where 
the  quiet  heaven  bends  down  to  mingle  with  the 
upturned,  humble  face  of  earth?  It  is  that  am- 
bition that  frets  and  disappoints  us. 


IV 

ENGLISH. 

An  orchard  flanking  a  well-to-do  farm-house, 
itself  the  last  house  in  a  village:  the  village 
stone-built,  like  all  the  others  in  that  region. 
The  cottages  along  the  street  more  like  farm- 
houses than  the  actual  one  by  the  orchard,  be- 
cause the  latter  had  smartened  itself  up,  and 
half  villafied  itself.  The  street  curving  down  to 
its  middle-point  like  a  slackly  strung  rope,  and 
in  the  hollow  of  the  dip  the  church,  locked  and 
empty,  priestless;  the  priest  a  soldier  some- 
where. 

In  the  street  hardly  any  native  life:  our  lot 
just  arrived,  but  scarcely  any  villagers  showing : 
shuttered  houses,  blind-eyed,  perhaps  hiding 
cowering  peasants,  women,  children,  old  men: 
the  emptiness  of  the  street  striking  oddly,  as 
though  it  were  midnight  and  daylight. 

Two  English  officers,  very  dusty,  after  a  march 
that  had  begun  at  break  of  dawn,  glancing  about 
as  they  trudged  tiredly  along  to  the  billet  in  the 
orchard.    A  door  gingerly  opened  and  an  old 

52 


ENGLISH  53 

face  thrust  out.  '*  Monsieur  !  Should  we 
Ayr' 

''  Fly  1  But  no."  One  of  the  Englishmen 
calls  out  '*  What  should  one  fly  from!" 

' '  The  Germans — one  says  they  are  at  the  next 
village." 

The  Englishman  does  not  believe — a  mere 
scare:  and  says  so.  '^  We  are  stopping  here  to- 
night, ' '  he  argues.  * '  If  they  were  at  *  *  *  *  we 
should  not  be  staying  here. ' ' 

The  old  grey  face,  unconvinced,  ready  for  mis- 
fortune, haggard,  but  stonily  calm,  goes  in,  and 
the  door  shuts :  a  bolt  creaks :  and  the  two  Eng- 
lishmen move  on. 

''  Should  you  have  advised  that?"  asks  the 
younger  of  them. 

**  To  stay  !  Why  on  earth  should  they  flee 
when  no  man  pursueth  f" 

'^  I  don't  feel  sure  of  that.  There's  something 
in  the  air — a  menace." 

They  came  to  the  gate  into  the  orchard,  rather 
a  narrow  gate,  not  convenient  for  getting  great 
ambulance-waggons  through:  the  orchard  itself 
not  very  convenient  for  packing  them;  some 
already  in,  their  horses  out  and  being  watered, 
or  being  taken  out,  others  being  got  in  up  the 
steep,  soft  slope  from  the  road. 

Under  the  trees,  next  the  hedge  on  one  side, 


54  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

officers'  servants  choosing  spots  for  their  mas- 
ters' bedding,  and  unrolling  the  blankets.  In  a 
corner,  the  men 's  cooks  making  a  fire,  and  piling 
np  their  big  cooking-pots  ('*  Dixies"  they  call 
them)  round  it,  the  officers'  cooks  lighting  a 
much  smaller,  opposition  fire  near  where  the 
servants  are  laying  out  the  blankets;  another 
servant  *'  laying  the  dining-room  table,"  i.  e., 
setting  enamelled  tin  mugs,  numb-looking  knives 
and  forks,  on  a  waterproof  sheet  on  the  grass. 

Some  officers  washing  themselves,  out  of  can- 
vas buckets :  one  or  two  shaving,  and  also  walk- 
ing about.  The  Ancient  decides  both  to  wash 
and  shave,  and  gathers  together  the  essentials, 
then  walks  off  to  the  farm.  At  the  pump,  and 
at  a  horse-trough,  a  fierce  washing  and  splash- 
ing of  men  stripped  to  the  waist.  He  asks,  in- 
sinuatingly, at  the  kitchen-door  if  there  is  any 
room  where  he  may  go  and  wash  too :  the  propo- 
sition received  favourably ;  and  he  is  escorted  to 
a  room  on  the  ground-floor,  tiled,  and  opening 
on  to  a  walled  garden  with  a  few  dahlias  and  a 
good  many  high-stepping  hens  in  it.  The  room 
contains  a  big  bedstead,  almost  grandiose,  and 
a  chair  with  three  legs  and  an  empty  butter-tub 
sustaining  the  fourth  corner;  also  a  table  cov- 
ered with  ragged  American  leather,  on  which 
are    three    used    paper    collars    coloured    like 


ENGLISH  55 

meerschaum  pipes,  an  extremely  small  tin  bowl, 
and  a  bucket  full  of  water  presumably  second- 
hand. On  a  shelf  is  a  fine  old  Renaissance 
crucifix,  on  a  chest  of  drawers  a  statue  of  Our 
Lady  of  Lourdes  with  little  pots  of  cow-medi- 
cines at  her  feet.  There  is  a  framed  photograph 
(an  enlargement,  evidently,  and  woolly)  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  in  the  uniform  of  a 
Marechale  Chef  de  Logis  of  a  cavalry  regiment : 
the  original  far,  far  away.  When  did  he  last  lie 
in  that  hot-looking  bed  1  Will  he  ever  come  back 
to  lie  in  it  again?  His  unknown  guest  entreats 
that  he  may :  and  tries  to  take  the  comfort  of  a 
promise  from  the  portrait — not  a  fateful  face, 
but  round,  well-satisfied;  the  figure  dapper, 
stoutish,  prosperous.  No  tragic  wistfulness  in 
the  big,  wide-opened,  shrewd  eyes.  But  eh  ! 
alas  !  if  only  the  fateful-faced  ones  fell,  how 
short  would  be  the  roll  of  the  slain.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  window  in  the  garden  it  seema 
there  is  another  pump,  and  three  exploring  sol- 
diers discover  it;  and  after  considerable,  if 
hasty,  peeling,  pump  obligingly  on  each  other. 
The  Ancient  hands  out  his  bucket  and  begs  for 
a  clean  re-fill. 

On  the  tiled  floor  he  manages  almost  a  bath. 
Then,  a  shave ;  then  a  return  to  the  orchard,  and 
supper  which  happens  to  be  dinner  also.    It  is 


56  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

dark  now,  and  the  few  lights,  here  and  there 
among  the  crowded  trees,  show  up  Rembrandtish 
groups  and  faces. 

A  motor-cyclist  dispatch-rider  arrives  before 
the  cheese. 

''Up  and  off." 

In  the  dark  the  "  beds  "  are  hurriedly  rolled 
up  again:  tires  are  kicked  out:  pots  and  kettles 
huddled  away  into  their  waggons :  horses  quickly 
harnessed,  their  drivers  condoling  with  them 
over  unfinished  oats ;  cracking  of  boughs  as  the 
waggons  struggle  through  the  trees,  quite  in- 
visible now  in  the  moonless  dark ;  in  wonderfully 
few  minutes  what  was  a  camp  is  a  camp  no 
longer,  and  the  * '  unit  ' '  waits  in  the  road  for  the 
order  to  march.  Silent  groups  of  peasants  flit  by, 
homeless  now :  you  can  hear  their  shuffling  feet, 
their  breathing  as  they  pass  close  to  you,  hardly 
a  voice,  even  in  a  sob ;  even  the  children  make  no 
wail,  hurry  and  dread  hold  them  too  silent. 
Whither  they  go  they  know  not;  why,  they  can 
scarce  know,  those  babies  on  whom  (as  on  their 
fathers  gone  already  whither  they  know  not) 
the  horrible,  dull  riddle  of  the  war  has  fallen. 
One  wonders  when  they  will  come  back — to- 
morrow ?  Never  ?  Is  the  darkness  swallowing, 
assimilating,  them  ?  or  will  the  dawn's  light  see 
them  creeping  chilly  home,  after  a  nightmare 


ENGLISH  57 

of  false  alarm  ?  Part  of  the  riddle.  In  a  thou- 
sand variants  the  riddle  keeps  asking  itself  all 
day,  all  night,  always. 

One  cannot  see  the  village.  Not  a  light  in  any 
house  of  it.  Not  a  glint  of  moonshine  catches 
belfry  or  gable  anywhere.  Swallowed,  too,  in 
the  thick,  hot,  dusty  dark. 

One  thinks  of  Keats'  village — **  emptied  of  its 
folk  this  pious  morn,"  its  villagers  all  gone  fol- 
lowing the  lowing  kine  to  the  festal  sacrifice :  not 
by  association  does  that  bland  and  lovely  picture 
come  louping  into  memory — by  contrast.  No 
pious  eve  this — or  is  it?  Of  what  unfestal 
sacrifice  are  these  village-folk  themselves  the 
victims  ? 

"Quick  march." 

The  cadence  of  five  hundred  feet,  no  sound 
else.  No  song  whistled  or  sung.  And  nothing 
visible:  no  doubt  each  man  can  see  his  neigh- 
bour, but  no  eye  could  pick  out  of  the  blackness 
any  shape  of  the  whole  marching  column.  It 
moves  along  the  bottom  of  the  night  as  though 
gulfed  in  a  black  and  great  water.  No  man  of 
all  that  march  has  ever  seen  the  fields  that  flank 
his  road,  nor  ever  will  see  them :  what  they  may 
be  like  he  cannot  guess,  nor  is  he  guessing:  if 
there  be  homes  here  they  do  not  betray  their 
nearness,  but  huddle  into  the  sombre,  stealthy 


58  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

skirts  of  the  night.  There  may  be  corn-lands, 
garden-plots,  trees,  orchards — there  may  be  any- 
thing ;  an  army,  friendly,  or  hostile.  Somewhere 
hereabouts  are  two  armies,  our  own,  of  which 
this  little  block  of  silent-moving  men  forms  a 
tiny  part ;  perhaps  that  of  our  French  comrades ; 
we  do  not  know  in  the  least;  certainly  not  far 
off,  that  of  our  swift,  alert  foe.  We  do  not  know : 
not  to  know  anything  is  for  such  as  ourselves  a 
note  of  this  early  phase  of  the  war. 

And  no  one  asks :  no  questions  are  heard,  no 
surmise.  Perhaps  every  man  wonders,  but  none 
asks  ''Whither?"  or  ''Why!"  The  Ancient 
wonders  too :  not  whither,  or  why :  for  the  name 
of  one  place  would  mean  as  little  to  him,  if  he 
knew  it,  as  that  of  another:  nor  if  he  could  be 
told  the  actual  purpose  of  each  march  would  he 
perhaps  understand,  for  to  him  all  war  and 
strategy  are  an  unlearned  language.  Only  he 
wonders  of  what  the  men  are  thinking  as  they 
go :  of  what  homes,  friends,  partings  ? 

Sometimes  one  can  tell  by  the  sound  of  the 
marching  feet  that  they  fall  on  a  narrowed  road 
between  high  banks;  oftener  there  must  be  flat 
ground  to  left  and  right. 

''Halt  !" 

Cross-roads,  and  a  momentary  pause.  Then 
the  way  to  the  left  is  chosen  and  the  column 


ENGLISH  59 

moves  again.  Uphill  this  time.  For  a  bare  half- 
mile. 

Then  there  comes  the  clatter  of  a  ridden  horse 
galloping  after  us,  and  its  rider,  finding  the  com- 
manding officer,  tells  him, 

*' They  are  there.    At  the  top  of  the  hill.  .  .  ." 

The  Ancient,  close  by,  hears  him. 

Another  halt,  and  a  turn  about;  to  turn  the 
waggons  is  very  difficult:  they  are  not  made  to 
turn  on  narrow  roads,  and  on  a  narrow  road 
without  flat  ground  on  either  side  would  be  im- 
possible ;  who  can  tell  in  this  smother  of  darkness 
whether  this  road  be  broad  or  narrow,  what  it  is 
like  to  right  and  left  ?  They  are  turned,  and  it 
is  **  Quick  march  !"  again,  downhill.  Odd  to 
think  who  was  behind ;  to  wonder  how  near  I 

For  a  long  way  it  is  dowlihill,  easier  going  for 
tired  feet,  and  for  a  long  way  the  road  passes 
between  steep  high  banks.  The  silence,  and  the 
rhythmic  monotone  of  the  marching  feet  makes 
one  sleepy,  deadly  sleepy.  "What  luxury  if  one 
could  lie  down  among  the  soft,  deep  dust  of  the 
wayside  and  be  asleep.  Can  one  sleep  walking ; 
is  there  only  the  somnambulance  of  disease? 
Often  the  Ancient  thought  he  must  have  slept 
moving;  perhaps  only  for  a  few  moments,  that 
seemed  to  have  been  long. 

Another  halt  at  last :  a  long  wait,  and  then  the 


60  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

orders  not  to  camp,  but  for  all  to  rest  where  they 
were.  Some  lay  do^vll  at  once  on  the  roadside, 
some  clambered  up  the  high  banks  and  lay 
among  the  stubble  they  found  at  the  top.  The 
Ancient  scrambled  up  to  the  driving-seat  of  a 
waggon,  intending  to  sleep  there.  But  the  night 
was  cold  now,  and  the  sleep  that  had  seemed  to 
swallow  him  up,  to  assault  him  like  an  obsession, 
as  he  walked,  would  not  come  now  that  it  was 
bidden.  Ficklest  of  friends  !  So  rude  to  thrust 
herself  on  us  uninvited  at  awkward  moments,  so 
standing  upon  punctilio  when  entreated. 

The  horses  slept:  their  driver  slept:  someone 
inside  the  waggon  was  certainly  asleep,  as  he 
assured  the  public  most  resonantly. 

The  Ancient  tried  to  sleep  by  telling  himself  a 
story  of  matchless  pointlessness  and  banalite 
about  a  man  called  Jones,  who  had  twelve  chil- 
dren, and  the  eldest  married  Carolina  Williams 
and  had  twelve  children,  the  eldest  of  whom,  etc., 
etc.  But  it  would  not  do :  he  only  began  to  have 
a  monstrous  interest  in  the  alliances  of  the  Jones 
family. 

The  man  asleep  inside  the  waggon  slept  on, 
but  ceased  to  snore.  There  was  no  sound  now 
except  the  occasional  jingle  of  harness  as  a  horse 
shifted  in  his  sleep. 

At  last  there  came  another  sound,  very  strange 


ENGLISH  61 

and  troubling,  of  someone  weeping:  of  someone 
invisible  behind  the  curtain  of  the  waggon,  but 
close,  close  to,  crying  very  low  and  quietly. 
There  were  no  women  there  to  weep:  and  the 
memory  of  the  Ancient,  always  errant  and  va- 
grant, clapped  into  his  mind  that  great  saying 
of  the  old  heathen  historian,  concerning  a  tribe 
of  the  very  people  now  our  enemies:  *'  It  is  for 
their  women,  indeed,  to  weep:  for  their  men  to 
remember. ' ' 

Was  this  Englishman  who  wept  remembering 
too  ? 

What  more  gross  than  for  one  man  to  thrust 
in  and  show  himself  aware  of  another  man's 
tears  ?  In  broad  daylight,  face  to  face,  the 
Ancient  could  not  have  done  it:  he  must  have 
turned  away  and  hidden  the  indiscretion  of  hav- 
ing noted. 

But  in  this  thick  and  lonely  night,  two  awake 
in  the  midst  of  a  sleeping  company,  it  seemed 
different:  the  two  watchers  so  near  together, 
hardly  a  foot  of  space  between  them,  for  one  to 
hold  himself  aloof,  discreetly  heedless,  from  the 
trouble  in  some  young  heart  so  near  his  owm, 
seemed  but  a  cold  and  callous  hardness. 

**  What  is  it  ?"  he  whispered,  drawing  the 
curtain  aside,  and  bending  towards  it. 

It  was  so  dark  that  the  whiteness  of  the  cur- 


62  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

tains  barely  showed  less  black  than  the  night 
herself;  so  much  darker  inside  that  no  face  be- 
came visible. 

*'  Sir,  I  thought  everyone  was  asleep.  I  didn't 
know  as  you  was  there."  A  young  voice,  ^vith 
the  northland  burr  in  it  that  to  the  Ancient, 
north-country  born,  always  sounds  homely, 
friendly. 

*'  I  beg  your  pardon  ..." 

"  Nay,  it's  me  as  should.  I  niver  thought  to 
trooble  no  one." 

''  It  only  troubles  me  to  think  you  are  in 
trouble.  I'm  ashamed  to  have  let  you  know  I 
heard  you,  only  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  and  I 
are  the  only  ones  awake,  and  one  of  us  is  sad — 
I  couldn't  help  speaking,  though  one  man's 
words  can 't  alter  another 's  trouble. ' ' 

* '  Sir,  I  thank  you  kindly.  They  're  all  strange 
to  me  yet;  I've  ne'er  a  choom;  there's  bin  no 
time  yet,  nor  yet  no  chance,  o '  making  any.  So 
I  think.  And  I  couldna  sleep :  and  ...  I  were 
thinking  of  my  gal.'* 

**  Are  you  engaged  to  be  married  ?" 

'*  Nay,  I  am  married.  There's  the  trooble. 
Married  not  twelve  months.  And  my  wife  she 
was  near  her  time — not  full  come  it  wasn't,  but 
near.  Then  the  mobilization  order  came,  and  I 
had  to  get  over  to  Dublin ;  and  the  very  day  we 


ENGLISH  63 

embarked  came  a  letter,  not  from  her,  but  from 
her  sister ;  and  it  was  gave  me  on  board,  and  I 
read  it  as  we  was  moving  down  and  the  folk 
cheering,  and  the  sirens  squealin',  and  it  said 
how  Tessie'd  worried  o'er  me  going,  and  her 
pains  had  coom  on  her:  and  the  child  had  been 
born,  and  she  very  ill  an'  all,  and  the  nurse  as 
was  Catholic,  like  yourself,  sir,  had  christened 
him  after  me,  but  he  died  an  hour  after.  ..." 

A  little  pause,  a  struggle  too  easy  to  divine, 
though  by  hard  force  inaudible,  and  the  young 
voice  took  up  its  humble  plain  tale. 

*'  I'd  told  her,  a  hoondred  times,  as  soon 
there 'd  be  the  little  'un  to  comfort  her.  And 
she'd  listen,  an'  cooldna  say  me  Nay.  She 
know'd  it  'ud  comfort  her.  Yet  it  troobled  her 
an'  all  as  the  child  'ud  coom  and  me  not  there 
to  give  it  e'er  a  welcome.  *  Eh,  Jim,  but  1  niver 
thought  to  be  left  alone  then/  she  said,  and  I  told 
her  nor  me  eether;  but  it  was  just  Dooty,  and 
had  to  be  doon;  and  she  couldna  say  me  Nay  to 
that  eether,  nor  she  didna  try.  She  didna 
cry,  but  her  face  daunted  me.  She  didna  cry 
not  even  when  I  coomed  away;  p'raps  she 
couldna,  p'raps  she  wouldna — but  she  fell  out 
o'  me  arms,  and  it  was  like  death  she  looked: 
and  that  Irish  nurse  I  told  you  of  ran  in,  and 


64  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

made  me  a  sign  as  I  had  better  go,  and  I  had 
to  go." 
Another  little  struggling  pause,  and  then : 
* '  Eh,  Sir :  when  I  knew  as  she  hadna  the  child 
to  think  on — we'd  both  on  us  bin  thinking  of  it, 
and  plotting  for  it  iver  so  long — when  I  couldna 
say  any  more,  as  I'd  said  to  myself  o'er  and  o'er 
again,  *  The  child '11  coomfort  her:  it'll  force  her 
to  think  of  it,  i'stid  o'  think,  think,  thinking  o' 
me  ':  and  all  the  crowd  o'  the  ship,  and  all  the 
crowds  on  the  quays,  cheering,  and  the  sirens 
yelling.  .  .  .  Eh,  Sir,  it  were  bitter  'ard.  .  .  . 
And  just  now  it  all  coomed  o'er  me  again:  and 
.  .  .  Sir,  ye'd  niver  guess  what  it  is  to  a  yoong 
man  to  know  as  he  can  niver  see  his  soon's  face 
as  he's  longed  to  see  so  many  long  days.  The 
times  I've  fancied  it  !  And  the  times  I've  plot- 
ted for  it,  and  said  '  I  '11  do  this  and  that  for  the 
child.'  .  .  .  and  I'll  niver  see  it:  and  the  poor 
lass  to  have  but  a  peep  of  it,  and  then  to  see  it 
no  more  eether.  And  she's  delicate:  p'raps 
she's  gone  to  seek  it  .  .  .  and  if  so  our  little 
home's  gone  wi'  her.  I  could  niver  fancy  tryin' 
to  make  anoother,  if  that  as  I  brought  her  back 
to  is  gone:  niver.  I  couldna  fancy  being  hoos- 
band  to  another  woman,  nor  father  to  anoother 
woman's  child.  ..." 


ENGLISH  65 

What  can  a  man  say  to  comfort  a  pain  like 
that? 

He  may  know  what  he  should  say;  may  know 
well  where  the  only  hope  of  comfort  lies :  but  to 
be  glib  in  saying  it,  how  smug  and  shallow  must 
one  be  for  that  !  And  must  God  always  need 
an  interpreter  ?  If  He  keeps  His  own  reverent 
silence,  and  mil  not  always  speak  aloud  to 
wounded  hearts  of  His  children,  must  it  be  al- 
ways that  some  blundering  man  may  try  to  be 
more  eloquent  than  He  ? 

The  young  voice  fell,  and  the  old  voice  could 
not  soon  trespass  on  the  terrible  sacred  silence. 
Silence  herself  sat  between  the  old  man  and  the 
young,  making  friends  of  them.  And  the  old 
man  could  do  nothing  but  keep  saying  to  that 
other  Young  Man  of  Nazareth,  '*  Do  it  yourself. 
You  care  more  than  I.  It  was  your  wound: 
heal  it." 

It  was  the  young  sonless  father  who  spoke  at 
last. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  whispering,  ''are  you  asleep?" 

''  Asleep  !  God  forbid  that  I  could  sleep:  I'm 
not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Bad,  eh,  boot  you're  kind." 

A  big  young  hand  had  come  out  through  the 
curtain,  and  its  owner  felt  it  wet. 

* '  I  didn  't  dare  to  say  anything, ' '  said  the  old 


66  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

man.    *'  I  longed  to,  but  I  durst  not.    I'm  stupid, 
but  I  would  not  be  impertinent. ' ' 

*'  I'd  like  it  if  you'd  talk.  You'd  niver  say  a 
word  to  hurt  me:  and  I'm  lonesome  for  none  to 
talk  to." 

Then  they  did  talk:  the  young  man  saying  as 
much  as  the  old.  Perhaps  that  way  he  got  most 
ease.  But  I  am  shy  to  set  down  all  that  strange 
talk  here :  for  it  was  strange  how  two  men,  alone 
in  that  darkness,  awake  in  the  midst  of  so  many 
sleepers,  with  so  many  dreams  perhaps  being 
dreamed  so  near  at  hand,  two  men  so  divided  by 
age,  by  religion,  by  the  course  of  life,  could  talk 
of  the  great  real  things  of  life,  neither  knowing 
the  other's  name,  one  at  least  not  knowing  the 
other's  face,  and  be  at  home  together,  in  that 
foreign  land,  and  grow  intimate  as  only  sorrow 
and  the  sharing  of  sorrow  can  make  us :  one  of 
them  very  generous  in  taking  for  help  the  mere 
desire  to  help,  the  other  very  humble  and  rev- 
erent at  the  simple,  unwitting  revelation  of  a 
nature  very  manly,  singularly  pure  and  unself- 
ish, marvellously  refined,  with  a  refinement  that 
no  uncouth  fashion  of  speech,  nor  rough  phrase, 
could  hide  or  alter:  of  a  nature  very  brave,  for 
all  those  tears,  most  manly  and  with  a  plain  uu- 
braggart  readiness  for  danger  and  for  duty. 
I  have  spoken,  a  moment  since,  of  the  differ- 


ENGLISH  67 

ence  of  faith  between  the  two  men :  but,  between 
them  in  the  night  there  was  God,  and  at  that  Di- 
vine bridge  they  met,  and  stood  together,  not 
seeing  each  other  for  the  darkness,  but  seeing 
Him. 
Another  of  these  beginnings  without  an  end  ! 


NEITHER 

The  endless-seeming  September  drawing  to  its 
end,  but  not  yet  drawn  to  it :  blazing  noons  still, 
and  blazing  afternoons :  skies  pittilessly  cloudless 
all  the  fierce  day  long,  cloudless  at  sunfall,  but 
aflame  without  cloud-fuel  to  set  on  fire ;  and  then 
a  cloudless  twilight,  short  and  hurrying,  another 
war-day  panting  to  its  death  in  the  night 's  grey 
arms.  Then  the  moon,  huge  and  splendid,  more 
golden  than  silver,  sun-hot  looking;  the  harvest- 
moon,  staring  over  limitless  harvest-fields  at  the 
harvest  ungarnered.  At  last,  night — stabbed  on 
the  horizons  with  lurid  thrusts  of  death-fire, 
visible  pulses  of  war's  throbbing  fever. 

But  now,  the  mid-month  past,  the  nights  learn 
to  seem  as  chill  as  the  days  have  been  burning; 
and,  at  daw^n,  about  the  knees  of  the  woods  that 
clamber  down  into  the  deep,  steep  valleys, 
swings  a  veil  of  pale  gauze,  and  in  the  valley- 
bottoms  too,  not  only  in  that  wider  one  where 
the  river  that  has  already  christened  a  battle 

68 


NEITHER  69 

winds  through  water-meadows,  but  in  all  the 
maze  of  narrow  valleys  where  no  river  is.  Soon, 
at  the  sun's  signal  this  ghostly  oriflamme  slips 
from  the  wooded  bluff,  and  hangs  itself  a  few 
waiting  moments  out  in  mid-air,  pearl-white  and 
opal:  then  the  sun  conquers,  and  the  white  flag 
yields  itself  and  is  not. 

Then  comes  a  night  of  rain,  black  and  bitter, 
and  there  is  neither  moon  nor  stars :  and  another, 
with  a  clean-washed,  shining  day  dividing  them. 
And  so  for  many  nights,  rain,  rain,  rain:  and 
always  boastful,  flaring  days  between:  and  the 
deep  dust  is  deep  mud. 

Our  camp  on  a  table-land,  treeless,  standing 
high  above  deep  valleys  almost  tree-choked. 
And  presently  we  cease  to  be  a  camp,  and  the 
whole  unit  is  sanctuaried  in  an  ancient  place  of 
God:  a  high  stone  wall,  grey  by  nature,  greyer 
by  the  caress  of  more  than  half  a  dozen  centuries, 
shuts  in  a  twenty-acre  plot,  garden,  crops  and 
homesteading.  Over  the  wall  one  sees  from  far 
off  the  high  roof  of  a  lovely  chapel,  and  lower 
roofs  of  enormous  Gothic  barns:  once  a  Pre- 
ceptory  of  the  martyred  Order  of  the  Temple: 
after  the  shameful  murder  of  that  Order,  whose 
blood  from  every  land  of  Christendom  cried  to 
Heaven's  like  Abel's,  the  Preceptory  became  a 
house  of  St.  Bernard's  Order  of  Citeaux,  and 


70  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

through  the  centuries  the  white  monks  tilled 
these  upland  fields,  keeping  God's  silence,  far 
from  the  clatter  of  arms  and  tongues.  The  huge 
barns,  two-storied,  whose  upper  roofs  are  held 
aloft  by  immense  Gothic  pillars  of  stone,  were 
their  barns:  and  the  great  church,  lancet- 
windowed,  Was  their  church.  But  the  grey- 
black  building  at  the  western  end  of  the  vast 
farm-yard,  half-fortalice,  with  towered  angles,  of 
the  eleventh  century,  was  the  Templars',  and  is 
not  a  ruin  yet. 

At  the  Revolution  the  Cistercians'  long  reign 
here  ceased,  and  the  Sacrifice  ceased,  never  to  be 
offered  here  again  till  an  old  priest  from  over- 
seas, of  the  race  of  France 's  traditional  enemies, 
should  come  with  France's  now  war-friends,  to 
offer  it  once  more;  and  the  Preceptory  and  the 
abbey  has  for  over  a  century  been  simply  a  vast 
farm-house. 

The  farmer  was  born  in  the  Templars '  house, 
though  he  lives  now  in  the  homestead  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  long  quadrangle,  built  out  of 
stones  that  were  once  a  part  of  the  abbey,  and 
not  raw-looking  or  incongruous:  or  rather  the 
farmers,  for  there  are  two  brothers,  both  away 
now  in  the  deeper  furrow  of  the  trenches. 

The  Cistercian  church  stables  over  a  score  of 
huge  plough-oxen,  clad  in  the  white  habit  of 


NEITHER  71 

Citeaux ;  sedate,  solemn,  but  not  severe  of  mein, 
keeping  St.  Bernard's  silence,  toilsome,  useful, 
harmless,  innocent,  tliey  seem  to  desecrate  the 
dead  fane  as  little  as  any  aliens  could.  In  the 
night-stillness,  when  the  moon  thrusts  in  through 
the  high,  empty  windows  a  long  arm  of  virgin 
light,  and  one  can  but  surmise  the  white  shapes 
clustered  in  the  blackness  of  the  unlit  sanctuary, 
they  are  as  seemly  ghosts  for  the  innocent 
haunting  of  that  choir  as  anyone  could  picture 
there.  Their  lot  of  patient  labour,  their  lifelong 
tribute  of  plain  duty,  their  dumb  praise  of  Him 
who  laid  their  life  too  upon  them,  and  made 
them  bear  it,  humbly  and  nobly,  fulfilling  each  a 
fragment  of  His  immense  purpose,  does  this  not 
also  preach;  the  Cistercian  silence  unwittingly 
carrpng  on  its  unending  sermon  ? 

If  Rembrandt  were  not  dead  !  what  pictures 
for  him  !  The  long,  broad,  open  space  between 
the  barns,  with  groups  of  cattle  and  of  soldiers, 
camp-fires,  red  hands  held  out  to  the  blaze, 
dancing  shadows  of  men  on  the  barn-walls, 
titanic  figures  black  on  the  pallid-grey,  and,  be- 
hind, the  frowning  fortalice-hospice,  and  be- 
yond that,  the  last  red  relics  of  a  dead  day,  a 
blood-stained  fringe  on  the  blackening  robe  of 
Night.  .  .  . 

A  Friday  morning;    and,   outside   the   great 


72  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Renaissance  entrance-gate  of  the  homestead, 
wounded  men  being  laid  down  in  the  deep  straw 
of  a  long  cart-shed ;  no  carts  there  now,  only  the 
pitiful  long  rows  of  tattered  bodies  of  lads  and 
men :  married  men  whose  wives  and  children  they 
are  praying  may  not  presently  be  widows  and 
orphaned  lads,  unwed,  unbetrothed  unless  it  be 
to  Death,  from  whose  inexorable  tryst  they  seem 
to  have  no  shrinking:  all,  husbands  and  youths 
alike,  unf retf ul,  without  complaint :  by  each  sits 
Hope,  gently,  with  unheard  whispers  to  some  of 
the  promise  of  life,  to  others  the  Greater  Promise 
of  a  Life  now  clearly  perceived,  which  never  can 
be  quite  plainly  seen  till  the  learner  has  learned 
how  small  a  matter  Death  is.  It  is  only  the 
bustle  and  preoccupation  of  life's  trivialities 
that  makes  so  great  entanglement  of  death's 
knot,  and  dresses  it  up  in  the  threat  of  finality ; 
common  life  itself  is  the  knot,  twisted  up  of  false 
needs  and  futile  longings :  we  turn  a  sharp  cor- 
ner and  Death  holds  out  scissors  ready  to  cut 
the  hopeless-seeming  tangle.  We  find  that  the 
dreaded  frown  and  scowl  is  a  cowardly  legend, 
that  he  is  no  angry  stranger,  eternal  adversary 
of  life,  but  only  a  homely  usher,  mildly,  with 
smile  of  conscious  apology,  waiting  to  open  a 
door,  beyond  which  his  function  ceases. 
Among  the  rows  of  wounded  the  priest  moves, 


NEITHER  73 

seeking  his  own  sons,  though  in  truth  he  feels 
father  of  them  all.  Here  is  one :  Irish,  not  dan- 
gerously wounded,  but  badly  hurt  and  in  great 
pain  of  body ;  in  none  at  all  of  mind,  but  smiling, 
cheery,  very  glad  to  talk,  and  to  talk  to  a  priest, 
and,  Irish-fashion,  ready  to  assume  that  every 
English-speaking  priest  is  an  Irishman:  more 
than  half  right  this  time. 

Here  is  another:  Scots,  of  the  almost  swarthy 
Highland  type,  deep-eyed,  black-browed,  with 
hard  black  hair,  and  skin  through  whose  dark- 
ness glows  a  dusky  flush.  He  comes  from  a  lit- 
tle island  lonely  in  the  sad  western  sea,  a  crofter- 
lad,  and  silent  by  habit  of  his  lonely  life,  but  not 
hard  to  win  to  talk — of  home;  a  home  emptied 
by  the  war  of  father,  and  of  five  brethren,  all  out 
here :  only  the  mother  left  to  pray  and  to  do  six 
men's  work  as  best  she  can:  easier  this  work  be- 
cause of  the  emptied  home;  none  to  cook  for, 
none  to  mend  for :  and  the  praying  may  salt  the 
hard  outdoor  toil,  and  toil  and  praying  God  sets 
to  stand  between  her  and  futile  loneliness.  The 
silent-natured  lad  makes  pictures  of  his  few 
plain  words,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  them — the 
great  waste  of  ocean,  and  the  great  waste  of  sky 
for  background,  and  for  fore-piece  a  bent  and 
praying  woman,  a  frugal,  rugged  figure,  doing 
man's  work  that  her  men  may  do  the  work  of 


74  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

unsung  heroes  here  in  these  opulent  fields  of 
France.  She  herself  is  very  easy  to  divine  from 
the  son's  short,  plain  talking:  a  Mother  in 
Israel.  If  she  had  fifty  sons,  like  Hecuba,  she 
would  not  grudge  the  sending  from  her  side  of 
all  of  them  to  fight:  it  is  God's  battle  they  are 
gone  to  fight;  if  He  sends  not  all  home  He  may 
be  trusted  to  lift  them  to  a  better  place.  This 
son's  right  arm  is  shattered :  will  the  priest  write 
to  her? 

Near  him  lies  another  Scot,  not  Catholic— as 
far  from  Catholic  as  the  General  Assembly  of 
the  Kirk  may  be  from  the  College  of  Cardinals : 
but  he  also  has  inviting  eyes,  and  as  the  priest 
makes  to  move  on  they  beg  him  to  linger.  His 
name  is  David,  and,  like  David,  he  is  of  a  ruddy 
countenance :  in  the  clear  eyes  there  is  a  light  of 
innocence,  like  a  dog's,  and  of  fidelity,  and  lov- 
ingness. 

"  Sir-r,"  he  almost  whispers,  with  the  be- 
witching Scot's  burring  of  the  r,  and  a  shyness 
wholly  compelling.  ''  I  would  be  glad  if  ye 
would  comfort  me  too.  I'm  Presbyterian:  but, 
perr-haps.  ..." 

*' No  perhaps:  if  I  can  make  you  feel  less 
lonely.  ..." 

''It's  that,  sir:  just  that  only.  I'm  not  so 
varra  badly  wounded:  only   it    came    over   me 


NEITHER  75 

hearing  yon  lad  talking  to  ye  of  his  folk,  to  talk 
a  wee  of  mine.  There's  nane  here  that  would 
imder-r-stand,  but  I'm  thinking  you  would  .  .  . 
hame  's  hame,  Catholic  or  Presbyterian,  Hieland- 
man  or  Lowland,  and  eh  !  mine 's  far  away  ..." 

He  soon  dropped  ''  Sir,"  and  called  the 
Papistical,  prelatical  priest  *'  Father  "  and 
meant  it,  and  felt  it.  His  own  father  was  in 
heaven;  his  mother  had  none  on  earth  but  him. 
To  her  also  the  priest  was  to  write.  Simply  and 
shyly  he  talked  of  God:  and  in  that  common 
Friend  found  instantly  a  bridge  of  meeting,  that 
strode  at  once  athwart  all  estrangement  of  belief. 

"  Ye  gave,"  he  said  soon,  "  a  w^ee  Christ  upon 
the  Cross  to  yon  Catholic  fellow.  Have  ye, 
Father,  e'en  one  for  me  ?  Eh  !  it's  strange! 
I've  seen  a  whole  village  smashed,  and  a  whole 
kirk,  by  the  Germans '  shells,  but  the  great  Christ 
upon  the  Cross  stood  untouched.  His  arms 
spread  out.  His  head  leaned  weary.  His  face 
turned  up  to  cry  His  Father's  mercy  on  us  men 
that  killed  Him  .  .  .  and  all  the  shells  couldna 
break  Him;  and  He  said,  I  mind,  '  When  I  am 
lifted  up  I'll  draw  all  to  myself.'  Father,  pray 
Him  to  draw  me.  I've  been  a  wilful  laddy,  and 
His  words  have  been  dour  and  dismal  talk  to 
me  .  .  .  and  I  went  aye  my  ain  gait,  that  wasna 
]Iis,  and  I  liked  laughing-talk,  and  merry  things, 


76  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

and  noo  I  know  what  suffering  is,  and  I  can 
understand  better.  .  .  .  Father,  ye '11  mind  to 
ask  Him  mak'  me  His  ain  laddie.  Ma  mither 
gave  me,  willing,  to  the  war,  as  His  gave  Him, 
willing,  to  the  death :  ye  '11  write  to  her,  and  pray 
for  her?  And  I'll  keep  this  Christ  upon  the 
Cross  ye  gave  me  all  my  life  long,  if  any  more  of 
it  is  for  me,  and  I'll  never  forget  ye,  Father, 
never :  if  He  gives  it  me  to  win  hame  again,  I  '11 
pray  always  for  ye:  and  most  on  Saturday  at 
e'en,  when  we  make  the  evening  exercise  pre- 
paring for  the  Sabbath,  and  if  not  ..." 

''  If  you  get  Home  before  me,  to  that  other 
Home,  you  will  pray  still  for  me,  that  I  may 
come  there  too  ?" 

''  Deed  will  I  !    Good-bye,  Father.  ..." 

And,  next,  an  enemy.  God  save  the  silly  mark, 
for  the  priest  has  none.  A  Pole :  a  lad  of  nine- 
teen, but  of  a  big,  stalwart  figure;  tall,  strong 
and  stout,  and,  somehow,  ox-like ;  heavy  of  build, 
broad  of  chest  and  shoulder,  slow  (one  Would 
say)  of  motion,  when  life  and  strength  were  his, 
and  now  all  life  ebbing  fast  to  its  close. 

He  had  been  wounded  on  Sunday — and  this 
was  Friday :  shot  through  the  bottom  of  the  back 
so  as  to  be  utterly  helpless,  incapable  of  move- 
ment, and  yet,  alas,  not  killed.  They  had  found 
him  early  today,  lying  on  his  face  in  the  dank, 


NEITHER  77 

sodden  woods;  his  body  sodden  and  dank  too: 
all  gangrened  now  from  head  to  foot.  Through 
five  horrible  nights  of  pitiless  rain  he  had  lain 
alone,  unfed,  untended,  anguished,  slowly  rotting 
from  youthful  life  to  inevitable  death.  Pitiful 
Jesus  !  what  a  Purgatory  for  such  little  faults  as 
his  ! 

He  could  not  move :  he  could  only  lie  upon  his 
face — and  wait. 

He  had  no  French,  little  German :  but  enough 
of  the  latter  to  confess  himself.  He  could  not 
move,  and  the  priest  could  only  lie  down  beside 
him  in  the  blood-reeking  straw,  to  get  near 
enough  to  hear  the  sobbing  whispers  of  his  con- 
fession. 

He  had  no  beauty,  nor  comeliness,  like  a 
Greater  than  he:  only  a  big,  once  strong,  body, 
all  rotted  now.  An  ungainly  head,  of  a  low 
mentality  as  to  shape:  lips  green  and  terrible; 
eyes  like  the  eyes  of  an  ox,  slow,  large,  inex- 
pressive: and  the  one  expression  in  them, 
''Why  r' 

He  had  no  talk  of  home:  of  father,  mother, 
brethren :  or  of  fatherland.  No  talk  of  any  sort. 
Hardly  words  enough,  in  the  speech  of  his  coun- 
try's thief  and  spoiler,  to  confess  himself.  And 
no  time:  the  dregs  of  life  almost  all  spilled — 
at  life 's  threshold.    Yet  he  confessed :  as  though, 


78  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

throughout  the  ineffable  anguish  of  those  five 
ghastly  night's  rain,  he  had  been  preparing 
for  the  chance  encounter  of  a  priest,  or,  if  not, 
for  the  certain  coming  of  the  Great  Priest  of 
all  who  surely  would  not  suffer  him.  to  die  alone. 
Then  the  anointing.  He  tried  to  turn  outwards 
the  palms  of  the  terrible  hands  on  which  he  lay ; 
but  could  not.  He  tried  with  awful  endeavor, 
to  turn  his  head  for  the  anointing  of  eyes,  and 
ears  and  nostrils  and  mouth;  but  could  not 
All  that  remained  to  him  of  power  he  used  to 
lift  himself,  as  he  lay  face  downwards,  at  each 
recurrence  of  the  Name  Ineffable,  in  the  Latin 
Office:  and  each  time  he  forced  the  stiffened, 
frightful  lips  to  form  the  sound  of  the  Name 
Incorruptible.  .  .  .  **  Jesus  !"  "  Jesus  !" 

All  the  rest  of  the  Latin  was  to  him  incom- 
prehensible; but  that  Supreme  Word  he  knew, 
and  waited  for ;  and  for  every  recurrence  of  it  he 
was  ready ;  and  the  great,  half -dead  body  obeyed 
the  dying  will,  and  undying  loyalty,  of  the  sim- 
ple peasant-soul;  and  slowly,  with  awful  insis- 
tence, the  soul  bade  the  body  lift  itself,  and  the 
bowed  head  bow  lower,  and  the  fearful  lips  form 
themselves  into  the  sound  that  is  for  the  sav- 
ing of  the  nations  .  .  .  ''  Jesus  !"  *'  Jesus  !" 
*'  Misericordia  !"  So  that  the  old  priest,  lying 
beside  the  dying  lad  in  the  blood  and  straw. 


NEITHER  79 

shrank  almost,  for  ruth  and  reverence,  from 
uttering  It,  knowing  that  He  whose  It  is  was 
there,  and  that  the  Greater  Priest  than  he  was 
waiting  for  that  loyal  soul  to  fold  it  to  His  Heart 
.  .  .  and  at  the  last  recurrence  of  It,  the  Polish 
peasant-warrior,  feeling  himself  called  to  the 
Great  Peace,  twisted  the  ghastly  gangrened  lips 
into  a  childish  smile,  lifted  himself  in  a  supreme 
effort,  bowed  his  head  at  his  King's  Feet,  and 
whispering  ''  JESUS,"  needed  no  further 
speech  of  ours. 

About  the  dead  lad,  who  had  died  in  no  quarrel 
of  his  country's,  but  in  that  of  one  of  his  coun- 
try's merciless  riflers  and  despoilers,  at  the  hard, 
plain  call  of  sheer  obedience,  hung  no  terrible 
odours  such  as  Nature  would  have  told  us  should 
be  there:  but,  such  a  fragrance  as  those  who 
know  the  sweetness  of  the  Name  he  worshipped 
might  expect. 


VI 

WAE  DOGS 

A  MERRY-AiEED  moming,  that  might  have  lost 
its  way  into  the  war  out  of  some  September 
when  Peace  was  as  much  taken  for  granted  as 
All  Fools '  Day :  a  morning  all  sun-laughter,  and 
titter  of  little  winds  that  played  together  hide 
and  seek  among  the  forest-leaves:  good  forest- 
smells  too — some  dry  and  incense-like;  others 
cooler,  moister,  leaf-smells  and  earth-smells,  but 
all  breath  of  the  empty,  pondering  woodland. 
A  sky,  clear,  aloof,  ocean-blue,  -svith  fleets  of 
small  cloud-ships  at  sea  in  it. 

Last  night 's  camp,  in  a  sloping  orchard  by  the 
wayside,  already  half-f orgotten :  abandoned  at 
daybreak,  only  reached  long  after  the  nightfall 
of  yesterday,  it  belongs  to  past  things,  dimly 
held  in  memory,  as  much  as  any  chance  ac- 
quaintance of  a  journey  made  long  ago. 

Even  the  road  along  which  one  has  since 
passed  not  easy  to  recall: — which  village  came 
first — the  long  one,  straggling  down  from  a  bluff 

sa 


WAR  DOGS  81 

to  a  stony  river;  or  the  hamlet  wedged  about  a 
toy  church  in  a  saucer  of  the  downs?  the  gaunt 
stone  farm,  half  like  a  fortalice,  compact  within 
blind  walls;  or  the  other  that  seemed  as  much 
an  outcrop  of  the  soft,  rich  soil  as  the  opulent 
ricks  about  it  1 

Noon  not  nearly  come;  but  certainly,  one 
would  say,  dinner-time. 

For  some  while  the  march  had  been  athwart  a 
table-land,  sparsely  treed ;  now  it  ends  at  the  lip 
of  a  wide,  but  deep  valley;  water-meadows  laid 
flat  along  the  bottom,  the  sides  hung  with  close- 
packed  trees.  Through  them  the  road  slopes 
and  twists  down  to  a  town — to  two  towns,  one  on 
either  side  of  a  ridge,  the  only  one  that  spans 
the  river. 

Once  in  the  little  town  the  column  is  halted, 
and  the  halt  lasts  perhaps  an  hour. 

A  white  town,  of  clean,  shining  houses,  with 
spruce  gardens,  and  some  assumption  of  pro- 
vincial consequence,  and  gentility:  too  large  for 
a  dominant  chateau,  but  with  a  score  of  houses 
that  would  do  for  chateau  in  a  smaller  place. 

The  Ancient,  idly  observant,  is  observed  idly, 
and  perhaps  conjecturally. 

Standing  in  a  narrow  place,  with  the  fine  gates 
of  a  good  house  at  one  end  of  it,  he  is  considered 
meditatively    by    a    small    group — a    cobbler, 


82  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

evidently,  with  scrubby  hair;  a  lean  lad  with 
gaunt,  melancholy  eyes;  and  two  women.  The 
women's  eyes  are  not  melancholy,  but  fierce: 
not  deep,  like  the  boy's,  with  the  darkness  that 
comes  from  depth,  as  does  the  darkness  of  a  tarn 
in  a  hollow  of  the  woods,  but  shallow  and  black, 
with  the  blackness  that  is  merely  colour,  like  a 
blob  of  ink  splashed  on  a  white  board :  hard  eyes, 
and  shrewd,  watching  not  telling. 

They  are  mother  and  daughter,  the  Ancient 
decides:  and  the  middle-aged  woman's  eyes  are 
harder  than  the  old  one's.  The  cheeks  of  both 
are  white;  the  mother's  like  white  parchment, 
the  daughter's  like  white  paper. 

The  cobbler,  catching  the  stranger 's  eye,  ogles 
the  ' '  English  ' '  cigarette,  unlighted,  in  his  hand, 
and  benevolently  (but  with  arriere  pensee) 
suggests  matches. 

'*  Matches  !"  cries  the  younger  woman,  not 
much  above  a  whisper,  but  with  a  sharp  sibila- 
tion  that  seems  almost  to  echo  in  the  little 
wedge-shaped  place.    *'  Matches  !" 

The  cobbler,  meeker  than  most  cobblers,  half 
withdraws  the  twisted  knuckles  he  was  bringing 
from  behind  the  tattered  leathern  apron :  but  the 
Ancient,  undismayed,  holds  his  own  hand  out 
for  the  matches,  with  half  a  dozen  English 
cigarettes  in  it. 


WAR  DOGS  83 

**  Come!"  says  the  woman,  ''  I  will  show  you 
a  thing.    They  were  here  last  night  ..." 

''  The  Germans  .  .  .?" 

"  The  devils.    Come;  you  will  see." 

The  old  woman  nods,  and  nods,  with  bitter 
approval. 

The  cobbler  begins  to  shake  his  frowsy  head, 
but  spits  instead. 

"  It  is  that  .  .  . ,"  he  observes,  spitting  again 
to  clear  his  mouth  for  the  full  enjoyment  of  the 
cigarette  he  lights  apologetically. 

Towards  the  fine  gates  of  wrought  iron  the 
two  women  move,  and  the  younger  one  com- 
mands rather  than  invites  the  Ancient  to  fol- 
low on. 

She  does  not  talk  much — yet.  She  is  willing 
to  allow  the  stranger 's  mind  to  remain  fallow  for 
the  impression  she  intends. 

Inside  the  fine  gates  there  is  a  smart  garden, 
not  very  large,  perhaps  not  in  the  best  taste,  but 
with  much  ostentation  of  a  certain  taste :  rather 
ugly  statues,  very  ugly  fountains,  stone  balus- 
trades fencing  nothing  in  particular.  The 
statues  represent  not  heathen  deities,  naked  and 
unadorned,  but  heathenish  modern  females,  half- 
naked,  and  lost  to  any  shame. 

But  the  garden  is,  somehow,  ruinous :  not  with 
the  dilapidation  of  time,  and  decay,  but  squalid 


84  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

with  the  havoc  of  wanton  spoiling :  the  havoc  of 
yesterday,  raw  and  brutal.  If  dirt  is  matter  out 
of  place,  the  garden  is  all  dirty:  broken  chairs 
strew  it,  new  chairs,  not  broken  by  long  or  care- 
ful use,  but  smashed  in  careful  misuse:  ugly, 
costly  ornaments  litter  it,  throAvn  out  of  the 
window,  and  broken  in  their  fall :  some  of  them 
deserved  little  better,  but  the  throwers  had  not 
destroyed  them  in  protest  against  their  sham 
beauty,  but  because  they  took  the  beauty  for 
granted  and  were  minded  to  ruin  it.  Other 
things  had  been  tossed  out  because  they  were 
useful,  kitchen-gear  and  suchlike,  and  the  throw- 
ers chose  to  render  them  useless. 

The  doorsteps  were  foul  and  littered,  as  if  a 
generation  of  Auction  Sales  had  passed  over 
them — and  Auctioneer's  myrmidons,  who  can 
render  beggarly  in  a  day  the  decency  of  imme- 
morial tenancy.  But  here  it  was  thieves  who 
had  passed,  and  they  had  done  it  all  in  the  time 
between  one  sunset  and  another:  rags  and  tat- 
ters; smashed  bottles;  filth  from  God  knows 
whence;  children's  toys — dolls'  limbs  of  car- 
casses, torn  pictures,  school-prizes.  .  .  . 

In  the  entrance-hall  the  dirt  seemed  more 
dirty,  because  one  was  within-doors.  The  thick, 
costly  carpet,  smart  and  blatant  a  week  ago,  was 
like  the  floor  of  a  cattle-shed,  only  cattle  do  not 


WAR  DOGS  85 

spill  trays  of  food  upon  their  floors,  nor  are  they 
sick  upon  them. 

And  parts  of  women's  dresses,  veils,  and 
gloves,  gowns  and  shawls,  or  shreds  of  them,  had 
been  rifled  from  above  stairs,  strewn  here  and 
trampled. 

In  every  room  there  was  the  same  squalor  of 
ruin:  where  no  worse  had  been  done,  furniture 
was  overthrown,  broken,  or  torn,  where  tearing 
was  possible.  In  every  room  there  were  ghastly 
remnants  of  feasts;  a  grand-piano  had  been  a 
supper-table,  and  the  key-board  was  a  splash- 
board, where  soup  that  could  not  be  swallowed 
had  been  flung;  stews  had  been  emptied  among 
the  chords,  into  which  were  thrust  also  broken 
vases,  reams  of  unused,  but  crumpled  and  foul, 
writing-paper,  hundreds  of  picture  postcards, 
and  letters  from  friends  or  kinsfolk  of  the  dese- 
crated home's  owners. 

In  grim,  and  almost  silent,  triumph,  the 
Ancient's  two  guides  led  him  through  these 
ruined  places:  the  windows  were  all  tight-shut, 
and  there  were  everywhere  sour  smells  of  spilled, 
stale  wine,  and  spilled,  stale  food,  vinegar,  salad 
(this  was  often  on  the  sofas  and  chairs,  often  on 
the  floor,  often  splattered  on  the  walls  and 
hangings),  horrible  relics  of  stews  and  hashes, 
livid  lumps  of  discarded  meat.  .  .  . 


86  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

The  staircase  was  only  a  steeper  variant  of  the 
hall,  a  ladder  of  shame  and  shamelessness.  The 
upstairs  rooms  were  much  worse.  Perhaps  be- 
cause they  had  really  been  nicer  than  the  rooms 
of  state  and  show  below.  Here  one  could  see 
there  had  been  less  expense,  more  comfort :  still 
here  also  it  was  easy  to  see  there  had  been  opu- 
lence and  neatness,  and  good  order  as  well.  Ev- 
erything was  at  topsy-turvy  now.  Sheets  twisted 
round  table-legs;  mirrors  broken;  wardrobes 
flung,  face  downwards  on  the  floors,  and  smashed 
open  from  behind ;  heavy  and  rich  curtains  torn 
down,  as  though  for  extra  blanketing,  and  left 
on  beds  where  revellers  had  slept:  boxes  of 
tooth-powder  used,  one  would  say,  for  playful 
missiles,  and  so  their  pinky  contents  powdering 
sofas,  armchairs,  carpets. 

It  was  hard  to  say  which  had  been  ladies' 
rooms,  which  men's;  for  the  same  monkeyish 
industry  in  havoc  was  visible  everywhere — good 
men's  clothing,  torn  or  fouled,  thrust  on  to 
ladies '  toilet-tables,  and  women 's  inner  garments 
festooning  the  racks  of  what  had  been  a  gun- 
room. 

Up  here  there  were  fouler  and  more  sickening 
smells,  and  the  Ancient 's  two  guides  interrupted 
their  silence  to  explain  them,  in  language  that 
English  women  would  have  been  shy  of. 


WAR  DOGS  87 

*'  Look  at  the  beds  !"  they  urged  .  .  .  which 
was  what  the  Ancient  had  only  done  once — be- 
fore he  understood.  "  I  said  '  DEVILS';  what 
do  you  call  it  ?  That  filth.  .  .  .  Then  came  the 
insistent  superfluous  explanation. 

They  would  not  spare  him.  He  must  see 
everything — and  smell  it.  He  must  understand 
that  these  had  been  officers,  they  who  had  done 
these  things :  officers,  and,  no  doubt,  their  order- 
lies, who  would  only  dare  to  do  what  their  iron 
masters  approved,  and  did  too. 

The  Ancient  must  see  the  stables,  littered  with 
the  books  and  clothing  of  the  ladies  of  the  house ; 
with  the  playthings  from  the  children's  nursery; 
with  drawing-room  cushions,  dinner  ware,  toilet 
ware.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  did  escape,  back  into  the  clean  sun- 
light of  the  little  place. 

'*  There  !"  hissed  the  younger  woman.  ''  You 
have  seen." 

Then,  suddenly,  with  brawny  arms  akimbo, 
she  thrust  her  face  into  his,  and  cried : 

*'  I  should  not  mind,  I,  if  that  house  were  all. 
They  are  rich  folk,  those.  From  Paris.  They 
can  buy  a  new  home.  In  Paris,  eating  well, 
drinking  good  wine,  they  will  not  miss  it  all." 

And,  as  she  spoke,  the  Ancient  saw  in  her  a 
great-granddaughter  of  the  tricoteuses.    Livid, 


88  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

furious,  cold,  pitiless,  her  fury  was  not  all  for 
the  invader,  or  chiefly  even,  as  it  seemed;  but 
for  the  rich. 

'^  Hein  !  I  pity  not  that  one.  He  and  his. 
They  are  not  of  our  pays.  Not  of  us.  They  are 
of  Paris.  They  buy  this  house,  and  stuff  it,  with 
all  that  stuff  that  could  feed  half  our  street,  and 
come  here  in  summer,  to  eat  and  drink,  and  play : 
then  the  Boche  comes  and  spoils  it  all.  So  be  it. 
Amen.    I  do  not  care,  I. ' ' 

Certainly  she  was  of  the  tricoteuses,  and  a 
type  the  Ancient  had  not  yet  seen.  Only  one 
type,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  not  typical,  as  of 
the  French  women  in  general.  Very  unlike  the 
French  women  he  had  mostly  known,  sober, 
kindly:  unenvious,  content  to  toil  and  enjoy 
frugally  the  frugal  fruits  of  industry  and  pru- 
dence— with  God's  blessing  on  it. 

**  But,  come  !"  she  cried,  grabbing  the  An- 
cient's shoulder,  "  and  I  will  show  you.  You 
shall  see  what  I  pity.    Ah-h." 

And  with  a  very  swift  turn  she  pushed  him 
through  an  open  door  and  up  a  steep  stone  stair 
to  a  home  that  consisted  of  a  single  floor,  three 
or  four  rooms,  all  very  small. 

''  This,"  she  almost  yelled,  **  was,  two  days 
ago,  the  home  of  one  of  us,  of  our  pays,  of  one 
who  ploughed  it,  and  picked  it,  bit  by  bit,  out  of 


WAR  DOGS  89 

the  ground,  with  his  hands,  and  his  wife's,  and 
his  wife's  mother's  hands,  and  his  son's  hands, 
and  his  daughter's  hands.    Look,  HERE  !" 

There  was  the  same  ruin,  and  havoc,  and  filth, 
and  devilment:  only  more  crowded,  and  more 
striking,  and  more  visibly  damnable,  for  being 
crammed  into  so  much  smaller  spaces  and  for 
being  the  ruin  of  a  poorer,  slower  effort  at  de- 
cency and  order  and  comfort.  The  garments 
were  sadder,  I  think,  because  they  had  cost  so 
much  less  money,  so  much  more  time,  so  much 
more  labour.  There  was  little  here  that  had 
been  superfluous :  little  that  had  stood  for  sheer 
ornament :  by  slow  degrees  the  things  that  make 
the  difference  between  poverty  and  ease  of  life 
had  been  earned  and  added  to  the  home.  All 
alike,  now,  lay  soiled,  battered,  trampled, 
derided,  desecrated.  Children's  garments,  fash- 
ioned by  tired  hands  after  the  children  had  been 
laid  to  bed ;  men 's  garments  patched  and  mended, 
with  frugal  care;  the  mother's  own  fete-clothes, 
saved  from  year  to  year,  and  never  despised  as 
out  of  fashion;  all  dragged  about,  fouled,  torn, 
ruined:  the  bits  of  furniture,  gathered  at  slow 
intervals,  the  strictest  necessaries  first,  then  the 
few  witnesses  of  a  late-won  prosperity — an  arm- 
chair, an  escritore — all  broken,  thrown  down, 
insulted.  .  .  . 


90  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

''Here  is  what  I  pity!"  cries  the  virago. 
"  And  you?  What  does  your  England  Imow  of 
such  work  as  this?  Your  place  is  an  island, 
they  tell.  Does  the  Boche  come  to  youf  Does 
he  play  these  hell-games  in  your  poor-folks' 
hard,  hard-earned  homes!      Re7nemher  !" 

She  no  longer  housed  her  words  sparingly :  but 
vomited  them,  with  a  fury  of  prodigality.  She 
neither  waited  for,  or  wanted,  any  response. 
She  wanted  to  enjoy  the  spitting  out  of  her  rage ; 
she  liked  it  better  than  the  daintest  meal.  And 
yet  all  her  vehemence  was  less  eloquent  than  the 
pitiful  ruin  in  which  she  stood.  The  few  rooms 
had  been  clean,  with  all  the  proud  cleanliness  of 
a  part  not  of  sentiment,  as  it  is  with  the  English 
peasant,  but  a  part  of  economy:  and  how  it 
could  have  been  made  so  foul  in  so  brief  a  time 
was  hard  to  understand.  No  description  could 
convey  the  result  of  squalor,  achieved  by  mere 
destruction,  misuse,  a  spiteful  resolve  to  spoil, 
and  to  insult  insensate  things. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

When  the  Ancient  escaped  the  column  had 
moved  on,  and  he  had  to  hurry  after  it,  with  his 
late  guide's  "Eemember"  stinging  in  his  ears. 

As  it  happened  the  march  was  nearly  finisheil 
for  that  day.    Crossing  the  bridge,  to  the  other 


WAR  DOGS  91 

little  town  with  another  name,  winding  up  by 
a  steep  white  road,  he  found  the  ''unit"  turned 
aside  into  a  flat  field  with  the  deep  valley  twisted 
round  it  on  three  sides.  A  lovely  place:  and  a 
miracle  that  it  had  not  suggested  to  someone  a 
great  castle.  The  field  was  full  of  cows,  and 
some  of  the  soldiers  were  already  trying  to  catch 
and  milk  them :  but  even  when  caught  it  was  not 
easy  to  milk  them.  There  were  woods  nearly  all 
round,  and  presently  puffs  of  smoke  detached 
themselves  from  among  the  trees,  followed  by  the 
familiar  noise.  "Whose  guns?  Ours  or  the 
enemies?  Both,  it  seemed;  and  it  was  not  easy 
to  guess  which  were  which :  it  was  less  easy  still 
to  make  out  at  what  they  were  firing,  Down 
river  one  could  see  far,  between  the  widely 
parted  lips  of  the  valley:  above  the  two  towns 
the  river  took  an  immense  sweep,  almost  en- 
circling the  place  where  we  were ;  down  river  the 
woods  of  the  right  bank,  as  we  looked  at  it,  were, 
it  should  seem,  held  by  our  artillery:  the  left  by 
the  enemy:  but  where  the  curve  came  it  ap- 
peared that  part  of  them  was  held  by  us,  part 
by  the  foe. 

To  be  where  we  were  sounds  rather  danger- 
ous, and  perhaps  was  so :  after  a  few  hours  it  was 
dangerous  enough  for  us  to  receive  an  order  to 
quit.   But,   at   the   time,   it   only   seemed   very 


92  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

lovely:  the  day  was  so  smiling  and  good-tem- 
pered ;  the  mysterious  woods  seemed  so  little  to 
lose  their  immemorial  peace  by  the  odd  tenants 
they  held  miseen.  Half-way  up  the  hillside,  in 
one  place,  in  a  clearing  among  the  trees,  was  a 
large  house,  surrounded  by  many  barns,  with  a 
trim,  sloping  garden  in  front :  not  a  chateau,  but 
the  wealthy  abode  of  a  Maitre  de  Forges:  his 
usines  lay  along  the  river-side  beneath,  under 
the  keen  eyes  of  his  windows.  Three  or  four 
times,  or  more,  a  German  aeroplane  came  close 
over  us,  like  a  dazzling  white  bird  up  in  the  blue : 
and  instantly  shells  began  to  burst  all  around  it. 
When  one  was  driven  away  another  came — often 
during  the  afternoon.    None  was  brought  down. 

The  afternoon  grew  hot,  for  the  breeze  fell :  it 
was  hard  to  keep  awake,  after  the  start  at  day- 
break, and  the  long  march. 

So  the  Ancient  sallied  forth  to  explore.  He 
found  a  street  of  villas,  each  overlooking  the 
valley,  and  each  with  a  pretty  garden :  all  empty. 
It  was  easy  to  enter,  for  the  Germans  had  been 
there,  and  had  broken  the  doors  open. 

From  one  to  another  the  Ancient  passed, 
finding  in  each  the  same  ruin,  havoc,  spoiling, 
desecration,  filth,  and  shame;  you  would  say 
that  bands  of  malevolent  apes  had  been  holding 
spiteful,  senseless,  ingeniously  destructive  Carni- 


WAR  DOGS  93 

val  there:  as  though,  long  kept  under  by  the 
superiority  of  Man  they  had  seized  a  moment  of 
anarchy  for  revenge — not  revenge  of  an  injury, 
but  of  Man's  hated  superiority.  So  they  had 
outraged  Man 's  sense  of  decency  and  reverence ; 
had  marked  for  peculiar  insult  and  desecration 
the  things  Man  holds  sacred  by  nature — the 
privacies  of  his  women-folk,  the  play  of  his 
children,  the  shrine  of  his  hearth. 


VII 

NOUGHTS    AND    CROSSES 

One  Sunday  evening  towards  sundown  our  unit 
stood  still,  lined  up  along  a  roadside  in  a  cheerful 
village  of  Northern  France — French  Flanders: 
what  was  once  Spanish  Flanders. 

The  wonderfully  skilful  move  from  the  Aisne 
had  been  carried  out  with  amazing  quietness 
and  success.  The  whole  British  Army  had 
silently  flitted  north,  and  stood  to  bar  the  way 
to  Calais :  its  place  had  been  deftly  taken  by  the 
French. 

There  had  been  nights  and  nights  of  weird, 
silent  marching  through  the  dark ;  often  through 
forests,  often  passing  through  sleeping  villages, 
sometimes  through  sleeping  towns ;  then  a  train 
journey,  bitterly  cold,  for  that  night  was  one  of 
hard  frost.  Each  section  entrained  at  a  different 
place  and  detrained  at  a  different  place,  so  there 
was  no  clashing  and  no  confusion.  For  this 
reason  we  ourselves  had  been  carried  to  a  point 
beyond  our  destination,  and  had  to  march  back. 

94 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  95 

We  went  straight  through  a  large  town,  the  only 
one  we  had  seen  by  daylight  since  the  very  first 
day  of  our  arrival  at  the  front.  The  men 
glanced  right  and  left,  rather  longingly,  at  the 
shops  and  cafes,  and  with  peculiar  interest  at  a 
big  circus  in  a  plot  of  waste  ground;  but  we 
marched  straight  through  and  were  soon  out  in 
the  country  again.  A  pretty,  home-like  country, 
not  flat,  but  with  rounded,  grassy  contours  and 
sloping  valley-pastures  with  cows  in  them,  and 
farm-houses,  not  very  un-English.  Then  a 
mining  district,  with  populous  long  villages, 
straggling  rather  slipshod  along  the  highway,  one 
naked  street  to  each  and  no  side-streets  or  lanes : 
not  poverty-stricken  at  all,  but  not  gracious  or 
home-like,  somewhat  loveless  and  unlovely  like 
mining  villages  anywhere. 

That  Sunday  evening  we  were  just  emerging 
from  the  mining  region,  but  not  quite  emerged. 
There  were  plenty  of  folk,  and  they  were  all 
turned  out  to  watch  us  go  by;  they  were  too 
civil  to  make  many  remarks,  but  they  smiled 
instead,  and  nodded  encouraging  heads,  and 
patted  their  hands  together  for  applause. 

The  Ancient  did  indeed  overhear  a  little 
remark,  and  retorted  on  the  lad  who  made  it. 

**I  was  just  as  young  as  you — forty  years 
ago.'* 


96  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

"Monsieur  talks  French!"  half  a  dozen 
voices  broke  out.  "Where  do  you  come 
from?  Where  are  you  going?  When  will 
the  war  end?** 

"Madame,  I  never  know  anything,  and  if  1 
did  I  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  tell  you." 

"There!    That  is  prudence:  that  is  right." 

And  all  the  heads  of  the  questioners  wagged 
approvingly. 

The  lad  who  had  found  the  Ancient  elderly  had 
edged  nearer,  and  was  clearly  disposed  for  con- 
versation.   There  were  two  others  with  him. 

"Is  Monsieur  an  Aumonierl" 

"Certainly." 

"Protestant,  no  doubt?" 

'  *  Not  unless  the  Pope  is  a  Protestant.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be  of  his  household." 

Everybody  was  much  interested.  "There!  a 
Catholic  like  us.  The  English  King  is  a  good 
man,  he  sends  Catholic  priests  for  the  Catholic 
soldiers.    There  is  something!" 

They  had  been  kindly  and  civil  before :  think- 
ing the  old  man  was  a  Pasteur  and  Protestant, 
they  had  respected  his  age,  and  the  calling  that 
sent  him  to  minister  to  the  spiritual  needs  of 
another  faith;  but  now  there  was  a  sort  of 
intimacy  and  relationship  in  their  smiling  en- 
couragement.   I  wonder  how  many  times  during 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  97 

the  war  it  came  in  upon  one  what  a  wonderful 
great  thing  the  Catholic  Church  is. 

''Monsieur,"  said  the  lad  whose  innocent  little 
remark  had  been  overheard,  "my  brother  here 
is  to  be  a  priest.  But  the  Germans  are  in  his 
Seminary.    We  are  refugees — from  Arras." 

He  was  a  big  lad  (taller  than  his  elder  brother) 
and  had  a  singular  sweetness  of  innocence  in  his 
face:  and  he  took  the  old  priest's  hand  and 
pressed  it  as  affectionately  as  if  he  had  been  his 
grandson. 

**I,"  said  the  third  lad,  "am  their  cousin: 
also  a  refugee.  We  have  no  news  of  our  parents. 
I  wish  the  English  would  go  and  drive  the  Boches 
out  of  Arras." 

"Are  you  also  going  to  be  a  priest?" 

"No.  I  am  an  artillery-student:  in  a  month 
or  two  I  shall  be  old  enough  to  go  and  fight. 
Pray  for  me.  Father. ' ' 

"And  for  me,  and  for  Raoul,"  put  in  the  first 
lad,  "and  for  our  parents.  They  don't  know 
what  has  happened  to  us.'^ 

The  word  was  passed  that  we  were  to  stop  in 
that  village :  we  were  talking  by  the  railings  of 
a  big,  rather  gaunt  chateau,  and  there  it  seemed 
we  were  to  take  up  our  quarters. 

"It  is  empty,"  explained  Ernest  (Ernest  was 
my  first  friend),  "it  belongs  to  the  people  we  are 


98  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

staying  with:  but  they  do  not  live  in  it.  May 
I  take  you  to  them?" 

They  were  charming  people:  not  aristocrats, 
but  wealthy  bourgeois,  with  frank,  open  manners, 
and  brimming  over  with  hospitality.  They  lived 
in  an  immense,  most  comfortable,  farm  behind 
the  chateau,  and  it  was  their  ambition  that  we 
should  use  the  chateau  as  a  hospital.  We  went 
and  lo  jked  at  it.  It  had  innumerable  vast  rooms 
very  lofty  and  airy,  all  paved  with  diamond- 
shaped  slabs  of  black  and  white  marble.  The 
Comjaanding  Officer  agreed  that  it  would  make 
a  good  hospital,  and  promised  to  use  it  if  we 
stayed — we  never  knew. 

We  slept  in  it  that  night:  but  long  before  it 
was  light  had  orders  to  move  on.  Just  as  we 
started,  in  a  thick  dank  fog,  a  huge  bundle  of 
letters  was  thrust  into  the  Ancient's  hands.  He 
walked  on,  waiting  till  it  should  be  light  enough 
to  read  them.  At  last  it  was  light  enough ;  the 
fog,  still  thick,  had  turned  first  dusky  yellow, 
then  grey,  then  white. 

It  was  cold  work  reading  the  letters;  the 
Ancient 's  hands  as  he  held  them  up  were  numbed 
by  the  frosty  fog.  Absorbed  in  home-news  he 
walked  slowly,  sometimes  standing  still  alto- 
gether, and  fell  behind  the  unit,  which  disap- 
peared in  the  fog.     Presently  the  bundle   of 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  99 

letters  under  his  arm  slipped  and  fell  down  in 
the  mud.  As  he  straightened  himself  up  again 
a  voice  demanded: 

''Where  are  you  going?" 

Not  an  easy  question  to  answer,  as  he  never 
knew  the  name  of  the  place  whither  the  unit  was 
bound.  The  man  who  put  it  was  a  French 
sentry,  an  elderly  soldier,  armed  with  a  beard, 
and  also  with  a  bayonet  that  was  groping  un- 
comfortably near  the  Ancient 's  ribs. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Wherever  the  unit  is  going.  It  is  in 
front. ' ' 

"There  is  no  English  unit  in  front.  Where 
do  you  come  from?" 

"Last  night  we  slept  at  Hesdigneul.  My 
unit  is  Field  Ambulance  No.  15:  of  the  5th 
Division." 

"You  say  you  are  English." 

"I  didn't  say  so,  but  I  am,  as  you  can  hear 
by  my  French." 

"Other  foreigners  talk  French  with  a  foreign 
accent  besides  the  English;  perhaps  you  are 
German. ' ' 

The  bayonet  was  hovering,  quite  longingly, 
round  the  Ancient's  ribs,  and  the  point  of  it 
gave  a  little  poke  at  his  chest. 

"I   am   not    German.      If    you    allow   your 


100  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

bayonet  to  make  a  mistake  you  will  get  into 
trouble,  Monsieur.  I  belong  to  the  English 
Army. ' ' 

''To  what  arm'* 

''I  have  told  you.  To  No.  15  Field  Ambu- 
lance. ' ' 

' '  Are  you  a  doctor  ? '  * 

''No.  I  am  a  chaplain.  See,  all  these  letters 
addressed  to  me;  that  is  my  name:  that  is  the 
corps  I  am  attached  to." 

Perhaps  he  could  not  read ;  he  certainly  could 
not  read  the  Ancient 's  rather  long  name. 

"It  seems  to  me  you  have  a  great  many  letters 
and  papers.  That  is  more  like  a  spy.  Besides 
you  are  not  in  any  uniform." 

He  made  no  bones  of  his  desire  to  complete  the 
introduction  between  his  bayonet  and  the  sup- 
posed spy's  chest.  He  was  a  rather  one-idead 
person,  and  seemed  constitutionally  obstinate. 

"If  you  imagine  I  am  a  spy  take  me  prisoner, 
and  march  me  along  till  you  come  to  my  unit, 
they  will  soon  tell  you  who  I  am. ' ' 

"I  tell  you  there  is  no  English  unit  in  front. 
I  have  just  come  down  the  road  and  met  no 
one. '  * 

The  Ancient  was  certainly  pleased  to  see  the 
figures  of  two  other  French  soldiers  looming 
through  the  fog,  which  was  now  much  less  thick. 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  101 

He  laughed  to  himself  to  remember  how  cheered 
Maggie  Tulliver  had  been  when  the  other  gipsies 
came  upon  the  scene,  thinking  that  if  she  had 
to  be  murdered  it  would  be  more  sociable  to  be 
killed  by  a  larger  party.  To  tell  the  truth  he 
never  expected  to  be  killed. 

*'Here!"  my  captor  called  out,  ''I've  an  old 
prisoner:  an  old  Boche:  an  old  spy." 

The  other  two  soldiers  drew  near  much 
interested.  They  were  quite  young,  and  looked 
good-natured. 

** Messieurs,"  protested  the  Ancient  laughing, 
**he  accuses  me  quite  justly  of  being  old.  I 
apoligize.  But  unless  you  help  me  to  persuade 
him  that  I  am  not  a  Boche  and  not  a  spy,  I  shall 
never  get  any  older." 

The  sentry  stated  his  case  against  me:  and 
poked  his  bayonet  at  my  bundle  of  letters  with 
extreme  disapproval. 

''If  you  could  read  English  you  would  be 
perfectly  welcome  to  read  the  letters,"  said 
the  Ancient.    ' '  They  are  from  friends. '  * 

"Spies'  friends,"  urged  the  sentry. 

"No.  Mt/  friends.  Look  here,  one  of  them 
is  from  the  General  commanding  my  army 
Corps.  If  you  can  find  him,  take  me  to  him, 
and  see  what  he  says." 

JJnf  ortunately,  as  the  Ancient  knew  very  well, 


102  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

the  letter,  being  on  small  ordinary  note-paper, 
did  not  look  at  all  official  or  convincing. 

*'If  his  friend  is  the  General  conunanding  an 
Army  Corps,"  observed  one  of  the  new  arrivals, 
''you'd  better  avoid  any  accidents."  And  he 
knocked  up  the  point  of  the  hovering  bayonet 
with  cheerful  insouciance. 

My  first  friend  grumbled  and  repeated  all  his 
grounds  of  suspicion:  my  new  friends  listened 
;judicially  to  my  arguments  and  found  them 
reasonable. 

*'Just  hold  these  letters  while  I  light  a 
cigarette, ' '  the  Ancient  requested :  with  painfully 
shallow  diplomacy,  continuing  his  speech  for  the 
defence. 

''English  cigarettes?"  commented  one  of  the 
soldiers. 

"Yes — may  I  offer  you  a  few?" 

Permission  was  not  refused.  Even  the  austere 
sentry  absent-mindedly  grasped  a  handful :  from 
that  moment  it  was  clear  that  he  had  receded 
from  his  high  position. 

The  Ancient  went  on  talking,  opening  a  parcel 
as  he  spoke.  It  contained  woolly  articles — socks, 
mittens,  etc. 

"Perhaps,"  he  surmised,  "you  have  not  been 

The  surmise  was  correct.  The  sentry,  indeed, 
able  to  change  your  socks  very  recently?" 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  103 

mentioned  a  date  so  remote  that  the  Ancient 
rather  hoped  he  would  not  .remove  them  quite 
instantly.  Having  administered  the  socks  the 
Ancient  did  not  await  any  summing-up  or  judg- 
ment as  to  his  defence,  but  wished  his  friends 
good-morning  and  moved  off. 

"^  tanfot!"  the  younger  soldiers  called  out. 

The  sentry  laid  down  his  weapon  and  pro- 
ceeded to  change  his  socks. 

A  hundred  yards  farther  on  the  Ancient  met 
one  of  the  men  of  his  unit — 

' '  They  're  all  in  that  field.  We  're  waiting  for 
orders." 

There  was  scarcely  any  mist  now,  and  the  sun 
had  risen.  In  the  fog,  twenty  minutes  before, 
the  elderly  sentry  had.  I  suppose,  not  seen  the 
English  troops  drawn  off  into  the  field. 

Very  soon  we  got  orders  to  move  on,  and  went 
through  a  town;  then  about  four  kilometres 
beyond  it  we  again  halted :  and  there  was  another 
long  wait.  During  the  wait  an  old,  shabby 
peasant  on  a  bicycle  was  arrested,  at  the  instance 
of  a  Staff  Officer  (ours  was  not  the  only  unit 
halted  there),  who  thought  he  had  a  spy-some 
look. 

The  Ancient  was  asked  to  pump  him,  and  did 
so,  but  not  with  acerbity.  Having  so  recently 
been  taken  for  a  spy  himself,  perhaps  he  was 


104  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

inclined  to  indulgence.  His  verdict  was  that 
the  old  peasant  seemed  guilty  of  nothing  worse 
than  fright  and  stupidity. 

Presently  the  Commanding  Officer  came  to  the 
Ancient  and  asked  if  he  would  like  to  go  with 
a  section  on  special  duty.  He  said  *'Yes,'*  and 
prepared  to  go.  The  last  time  he  had  left  the 
unit  on  a  special  duty  it  had  proved  rather 
** lively";  and,  as  all  the  talk  now  was  of  some- 
thing peculiarly  lively  impending,  he  imagined 
this  would  be  more  so.  He  did  not  therefore 
wish  his  servant  to  go  with  him,  as  the  man  was 
married  and  had  children. 

Finding  him  the  Ancient  said : 

*'I  am  going  off  somewhere  on  some  special 
duty,  and  I  want  you  to  get  my  things.  You're 
not  coming." 

*  *  No  ?    Did  the  CO.  say  I  wasn  't  to,  sir  T ' 

*'I  didn't  ask  for  you.  You  will,  please,  stop 
with  the  unit.  It  isn  't  your  section  that 's  going : 
and  I  expect  we  shall  have  a  lively  time.  You 
came  last  time.  This  time  I  shall  not  take  you : 
you  have  a  wife,  and  children." 

The  Ancient  gave  the  man  certain  directions, 
in  case  he  himself  did  not  come  back.  He  had 
a  conviction  that  he  would  not  come  back.  So 
much  for  presentiments :  for  as  it  happened  the 
special  duty  was  not  in  the  least  dangerous  I 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  105 

*'Well,"  observed  the  soldier-servant  ob- 
stinately, ''I  hope  you'll  ask  the  CO.  to  let  me 
go.  I'm  going,  sir,  wherever  you  go.  And — 
that's  flat.  Wife  or  no  wife.  If  an  old  gentle- 
man like  you  can  go,  a  young  fellow  like  me  can. 
And  I  'm  your  servant ;  and  it  '11  be  a  shame  if  you 
leave  me  behind." 

Of  course  the  reader,  knowing  that  there  was 
to  be  no  danger,  will  laugh:  but  the  Ancient, 
who  hadn't  the  reader's  advantages,  and  felt 
oddly  sure  that  he  would  not  return  to  the  unit, 
did  not  feel  at  all  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  young 
man's  insistence.  He  was  a  big,  rather  hard- 
bitten Lancashire  man,  not  soft-spoken  or  ex- 
pansive. It  was  the  first  time  his  master  had 
imagined  him  to  be  at  all  specially  devoted. 

A  couple  of  hours  went  by.  The  other  troops 
had  moved  on.  Our  o^vn  unit  had  drawn  off 
into  a  flat  stubble-field — more  like  a  ploughed 
field — between  two  villages. 

About  two  o'clock  the  CO.  came  again  and 
said  to  the  Ancient: 

**We  expect  a  very  large  number  of  wounded 
— not  only  to-day,  but  for  some  time.  Major  O., 
Capt.  H.,  and  Mr.  M.  are  going  to  run  a  hospital 
in  B.,  the  town  we  passed  through  this  morning: 
and  I  want  you  to  go  in  first  and  take  over  the 
building   from   the   French   authorities.     The 


106  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

A.D.M.S.  will  take  you  in  his  car.  He  is  going 
now. ' ' 

Then  the  Ancient  did  ask  to  take  his  servant 
with  him. 

The  building  proved  to  be  a  very  large  school, 
consisting  of  several  blocks  with  huge  halls.  A 
certain  number  of  bedsteads — perhaps  80 — had 
already  been  sent  in,  with  their  mattresses :  and 
a  number  of  French  women  soon  appeared  eager 
to  lend  other  bedding.  None  looked  rich,  many 
quite  poor,  and  the  Ancient  felt  bound  to  explain 
that  any  beds,  duvets,  etc.,  lent  would  certainly 
be  ruined,  soaked  with  blood,  etc.  But  it  made 
no  difference ;  these  good  creatures  went  off  and 
came  back  hauling  in  all  and  more  than  all  that 
they  could  give. 

Presently  the  other  officers  arrived,  and  soon 
the  wounded  began  to  come  in,  in  great  numbers. 
During  the  thirteen  days  we  remained  more  than 
twelve  hundred  passed  through  our  hands.  Our 
doctors  were  operating  incessantly :  the  work  in 
the  wards  was  shared  by  young  volunteer 
doctors,  and  some  not  full-blov/n  doctors,  I  think, 
from  England.  They  were  charming  fellows, 
and  their  sympathy  and  goodness  was  splendid 
and  touching.  Major  0.  was  now  my  temporary 
CO.,  and  he  proved  a  very  pleasant  one,  always 
good-tempered,  though  harassed  by  an  immense 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  107 

responsibility  and  an  appalling  glut  of  work. 
His  organization  was  excellent,  and  he  never 
fussed  or  harried  anyone.  Yet  he  had  not  nearly 
enough  men,  and  had  to  get  out  of  those  he  had 
far  more  than  a  reasonable  amount  of  work.  Of 
course  we  had  no  nurses,  and  only  the  orderlies 
of  one  section  of  a  Field  Ambulance — about  eight 
non-commissioned  officers  and  men,  for  day  work 
and  night  work,  and  the  immense  clerical  work. 
Under  such  circumstances  a  chaplain  could  only 
turn  himself  into  an  orderly  too,  and  there  was 
an  immensity  of  work,  and  very  beautiful  and 
entrancing  work. 

In  the  toA\Ti  were  four  hospitals.  Our  own  to 
which  one  was  really  attached :  a  French  volun- 
tary hospital  under  the  care  of  the  Dames  de 
France;  the  French  Hospice  Civil  et  Militaire, 
with  two  huge  wards  for  English  wounded  only, 
under  the  care  of  Lieutenant  M.  (''A  Surgeon  in 
Khaki") ;  and  an  enormous  English  hospital  far 
away  at  the  other  side  of  the  towai,  with  no 
Catholic  chaplain.  So  that  the  Ancient's  short 
legs  had  plenty  of  running  about. 

As  to  the  Hospice,  where  he  said  his  daily 
Mass,  he  felt  no  great  responsibility,  for  it  was 
under  Franciscan  nuns,  two  of  whom  were  Irish, 
and  had  a  chaplain,  the  Abbe  Buchendhomme, 
who  talked  English  as  well  as  he  did,  and  was 


108  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

beyond  all  praise  devoted  and  tender  to  the 
English  wounded.  Still  it  had  to  be  visited 
regularly. 

In  the  hospital  of  the  Dames  de  France  were 
certain  v/ounded  French  soldiers  kno^vn  to  the 
Ancient  whom  he  visited  rather  for  pleasure 
than  out  of  responsibility.  But  the  other  big 
English  hospital  had  no  Catholic  chaplain,  and 
that  had  to  be  visited  at  least  daily.  So  that 
altogether  a  twenty-four-hour  day  was  always 
too  short. 

Our  own  wounded  in  all  three  hospitals  were 
marvels  of  courage  and  patience.  It  would  take 
much  more  space  than  this  whole  article  to 
instance  their  most  touching  and  splendid  excel- 
lence as  patients.  In  both  English  hospitals  we 
had  a  certain  number  of  German  wounded,  and 
as  a  rule  they  made  far  '^heavier  weather"  over 
their  wounds.    Not  always  though. 

One  night,  about  two  o'clock  after  midnight, 
a  very  tall  young  German,  of  quite  splendid 
physique,  was  carried  in,  shot  through  the  chest ; 
it  was  the  Ancient 's  lot  to  tend  him :  and  he  did 
it  with  a  perfectly  weird  sense  of  reverence,  for 
the  young  man  looked  absolutely  like  certain 
pictures  familiar  to  all  Christians.  His  long, 
dark  nut-brown  hair,  his  rich  but  not  very  long 
beard,  of  a  much  darker  tinge,  but  still  not 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  109 

black,  still  with  chestnut-red  glints  in  it;  the 
fathomless  sad  eyes,  grave,  inward,  upward, 
pitiful,  ineffably  noble  and  majestic,  yet  gentle 
and  terribly  humble;  the  mouth  exquisitely 
tender,  spiritual,  pure,  sensitive  to  anguish,  and 
full  of  compassion.  I  say  it  was  weird;  the 
weirdest  thing  that  ever  came  my  way. 

*' Taller  by  the  shoulders  than  all  the  people 
.  .  .  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Children  of 
Men.  ..."  God  knows  what  phrases  of  the 
prophets  came  knocking  at  the  old  priest's 
memory  as  he  tended  that  stricken  stranger. 
The  poor  fellow  was  starved,  and  the  old  man 
fed  him,  and  suddenly  whispered : 

^'Evangelisch  oder  Katholischf" 

''Katliolisch.   .   .   /' 

And  he  confessed  himself. 

Just  as  he  had  finished,  one  of  the  young 
doctors  from  England  I  have  mentioned  came 
near,  and  said :    ' '  Can  I  help  you  ? ' ' 

He  also  was  struck  instantly  by  the  amazing 
resemblance  to  the  pictures  of  tradition.  A  look 
of  almost  embarrassed  wonder  showed  in  his 
face. 

"Do  you  also  notice  it?'*  whispered  the 
Ancient  m  English. 

'*Who  could  help  noticing  it!'* 

In  the  other  English  hospital  there  were  more 


110  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

German  wounded,  and  some  terrible  cases. 
These  were  very  patient.  Only  they  made  it 
all  more  fearfully  harassing  by  their  appalling 
German  sentimentalism  that  stood  as  it  were 
spectator  of  their  own  misery. 

In  the  very  large  English  hospital  at  the  other 
end  of  the  town  was  one  ward  in  which  was 
placed  only  men  of  whose  recovery  there  seemed 
little  hope.  It  was  a  sad  place  to  visit :  only  too 
well  filled  always. 

One  day,  almost  immediately  on  entering  it, 
the  Ancient  was  summoned  by  a  series  of  very 
peremptory  nods  and  beckonings  to  a  mere  boy, 
pathetically  childish-looking,  who  was  sitting 
up,  the  better  to  attract  attention,  in  the  middle 
of  his  stretcher.  He  was  badly  shot  in  the  head, 
and  his  bandages  had  a  queer  caricaturish  re- 
semblance to  a  turban:  coming  down  a  little 
over  one  eye,  it  caused  him  to  hold  his  head  side- 
ways, and  peer  up  sidewaj^s  in  an  inquisitive 
alert  fashion  that  was  like  a  starling.  There  was 
not  much  of  him,  and  what  there  was  was  very 
lean. 

"Kommen  Sie  liier/'  he  kept  calling,  with 
volleys  of  smiles.  *'Ich  wiinsche  sprechen  zu 
Ihnen.  Sie  sind  Katholischf  Ja!  Preldtf  Ja, 
ja:  icJi  versteJie." 

He  was  full  of  impatience.    He  had  been,  he 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  111 

said,  looking  out  for  a  priest,  and  offering  all  the 
money  he  had  to  the  orderlies  to  bring  him  one. 
They  had  assured  him  that  he  would  soon  get 
one  for  nothing,  but  he  had  not  been  quite 
ready  to  believe.  He  thought  they  might  only 
want  to  save  themselves  trouble.  He  said  he 
was  not  quite  sixteen,  and  he  certainly  only 
looked  fifteen:  a  most  merry  creature,  though 
he  fully  realized  that  he  was  probably  going 
to  die. 

''Now!"  he  cried,  triumphantly,  "I'm  going 
to  confess!" 

And  he  did,  in  no  subdued  tones ;  with  extra- 
ordinary preparation,  and  with  a  most  touching 
boyish  simplicity  and  devotion. 

All  the  time  he  knelt  up  in  the  middle  of  his 
stretcher,  his  little  face  full  of  "recollection," 
his  small  thin  hands  clasped,  the  bright  black 
eyes  tightly  closed. 

"Now!"  he  said  decisively,  when  he  had  been 
absolved.  "Now,  that  part's  done.  Now — 
anoint  me,  please." 

He  stretched  himself  out  as  flat — as  flat, 
alas!  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  coffin.  And 
eagerly  turned  to  the  priest  each  part  that 
was  to  be  anointed. 

"  And  now!"  when  that  was  finished,  "now, 
my  Father — give  me  Our  Lord!" 


112  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**Yes,  dear  little  son:  but  I  must  go  to  a 
church  and  .  .  .  ." 

''Well,  go!  Go,  Father;  be  quick.  It 
wouldn't  do  to  die  till  you  come  back," 

He  didn't  look  like  dying  so  soon:  but  still 
there  might  be  no  time  to  lose,  and  the  priest 
went,  bringing  back  with  him  more  than  one 
Host,  as  there  were  several  terrible-looking  cases. 

When  the  little  lad  had  received  the  Holy 
Viaticum  he  smiled  and  said: 

''Now  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  Aiif  wiedersehen, 
mein  Vater!" 

And  the  priest  turned  to  move  among  the 
dying  to  seek  for  others  of  his  own. 

The  only  other,  actually  dying,  who  was  a 
Catholic  was  also  German.  He  was  dying  of  a 
fearful  abdominal  wound,  and  for  him  there 
seemed  almost  no  hope.  He  never  ceased  to 
move  his  head,  in  a  ghastly  rhythm,  from  side 
to  side  as  he  spoke,  and  he  spoke  very  much. 
He  also  had  evidently  prepared  himself  for  con- 
fession with  as  much  patient  care  as  though  he 
had  been  in  a  Retreat :  he  made  it  with  intense 
fervour,  and  received  Extreme  Unction  with  the 
same  absorption  of  reverence :  then  Holy  Viati- 
cum. Then  the  priest  read  German  prayers  for 
him,  out  of  the  book  he  knew  he  would  find  in 
the   lad's    pocket:    a   wonderful   little    book — 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  113 

prayers  for  everything,  for  the  Sacraments,  for 
Mass,  for  occasions  when  neither  Sacrament  or 
Mass  was  available,  for  morning  when  on  the 
line  of  march,  for  night  when  the  day's  march 
was  over,  for  use  before  a  battle,  for  use  after  a 
victorious  action,  for  use  after  a  battle  that  had 
not  been  victorious,  for  use  when  wounded,  for 
use  in  hospital,  for  use  when  death  should  be 
drawing  near. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  old  priest  at  last, 
*'that  I  read  the  German  so  badly.  I  have 
almost  entirely  forgotten  it." 

*'Yes.  Yiou  read  it  badly,  but  I  can  under- 
stand." 

Then  he  started  to  talk  and  talked  for  a  long 
time.    Something  in  this  wise : 

'  *  My  name  is  Anton  Schuster.*  From  Wildbad 
in  Westphalia.  I  am  twenty  years  old — nearly. 
My  father  and  mother  are  alive:  and  I  have 
seven  brothers  and  sisters.  Four  sisters.  Three 
brothers."  (Always  that  weary  head  turned 
quickly  from  left  to  right,  and  right  to  left.) 
*'They  love  me,  as  I  love  them,  with  the  whole 
heart.  We  live  in  a  small  town  in  a  flat  place. 
Foggy  at  this  season.  The  fog  comes  in  at  day- 
fall  from  the  swampy  lands  outside  and  fills  the 
streets.  Then  my  mother  goes  to  the  window — 
*  The  names  only  are  fictitious. 


114  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

a  long  window,  with  plants  in  it.  And,  as  she 
draws  the  curtain,  she  looks  out — between  the 
plants — down  the  two  streets:  for  our  house  is 
at  the  corner  of  two  streets.  She  will  be  doing 
that  now — the  day  falls,  does  it  not?  She  will 
do  it  every  evening  through  the  autumn,  through 
the  winter:  and  some  evenings  she  will  see,  far 
down  the  street,  a  soldier  coming  home. 
*Anton!'  she  will  think  in  her  mother-heart. 
*  Anton  coming  home.  Wounded,  perhaps.' 
But  it  will  never  be  Anton.  Never.  The 
soldier  will  come  near  through  the  fog,  and  turn 
in  at  some  other  house.  Never  at  our  house. 
What  day  is  thisT' 

** Tuesday,  dear  son." 

*'And  on  Friday  I  should  be  twenty.  But 
there  will  be  no  Friday  for  me.  I  shall  never  be 
twenty.    And  how  old  are  you,  my  Father?" 

'^  Fifty-six  years  old." 

''And  you  will  live,  perhaps,  thirty  more.  I 
should  be  fifty  then.  Only  I  shall  have  been 
dead  thirty  years.  And  the  war  will  be  an  old 
thing  in  history;  and  when  you  die  too  it  will 
not  be  in  a  strange  land — is  this  France?  or 
Belgium,  or  where?" 

''France,  my  little  son." 

"You  will  not  die  among  enemies  who  hate 
you !    Who  curse  you  and — ^— " 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  115 

"Do  you  think  I  hate  you?  You  must  see 
that  I  love  you,  my  poor,  poor  son." 

*'Ah,  you!  Yes.  You  are  a  priest,  my 
Father.  Priests  can  love  everybody.  But  the 
rest  here — they  hate,  hate,  hate  me." 

''Has  not  everyone  been  kind  to  you?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes.  Quite.  Very  kind.  But 
outside  .  .  .  they  hate  me:  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  be  carried  outside." 

The  weary  head  moved  to  and  fro  with  a 
passion  of  horror. 

"Anton!  Do  you  give  yourself  any  chance? 
Try  not  to  torment  yourself.    Try  to  sleep." 

"To  sleep!  What  a  hurry  you  are  in.  I 
shall  sleep  soon  enough,  and  long  enough.  When 
I  sleep  I  shall  never  wake.  Our  mother  used  to 
come  and  waken  me — to  get  up  and  work:  the 
honest,  hard,  kind  work.  She  will  not  wake  me 
this  time." 

"It  will  be  your  Father  this  time.  And 
Gottes-Mutter." 

Very,  very  long  the  sad  youth  went  on,  never 
tiring  of  his  frightful  spectatorship  of  his  own 
sadness. 

Next  morning  I  found  he  was  dead :  the  other 
lad  not  dead,  but  sufficiently  recovered  to  have 
been  sent  away  doAvn  the  line  to  a  base 
hospital. 


116  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

That  evening  there  were  eleven  to  bury :  when 
the  priest  had  finished  the  Office,  he  turned  from 
the  long  sad  trench,  and  was  taking  off  his 
stole. 

**But,"  said  the  custode  of  the  cemetery, 
**  there  is  the  German.  He  also  was,  they  say, 
a  Catholic." 

**Is  he  not  among  those  f 

**He?  No.  He  is  to  be  put  over 
there." 

He  pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  great  field  of 
death,  a  Haceldama  for  that  alien  stranger. 

The  little  procession  of  English  soldiers,  bear- 
ing the  dead  German  youth,  moved  silently 
towards  the  place.  The  English  and  Germans, 
less  than  a  league  away,  gave  him  minute  guns 
all  unknowingly,  the  dull  October  dusk  fell 
drearily.  Perhaps  at  that  moment  Anton's 
mother  was  looking  through  the  plants  at  her 
window.  During  the  burial  of  the  English  and 
French  dead  a  large  group  of  French  women  had 
stood  reverently  by.  Most  of  them  had  gone 
away  then :  the  few  who  stayed  were  of  the  hard, 
hard  tricoteuses  type,  and  did  not  stay  for  love. 
They  moved  also  towards  that  alien  corner,  and, 
as  the  poor  body  of  the  lad  was  laid  into  its 
place,  some  of  them  hissed. 


NOUGHTS  AND  CROSSES  117 

It  was  a  comfort  to  see  the  scared,  horrified 
faces  of  the  English  soldiers. 

I  earnestly  hope  no  reader  will  think  those 
hissing  women  typical  of  the  French  heart. 

Long  afterwards  in  another  cemetery  the 
Ancient  thanked  a  very  gentle  French  lady  who 
spent  all  her  spare  time  decking  the  graves  of 
the  hundred  English  soldiers  buried  there.  It 
was  a  work  of  pure  tenderness  and  charity :  she 
knew  well  that  their  friends  could  never  know, 
could  never  see  what  she  did,  and  thank  her. 

''That,"  she  said  simply,  ''is  why  I  do  it. 
They  cannot  come:  those  wives,  and  mothers, 
and  sisters.  I  have  to  be  the  mother  and  sister 
of  these  sleepers." 

' '  And  he  I "  asked  the  Ancient,  pointing. 

There  was  one  wooden  cross,  with  a  German 
officer's  name  upon  it;  he  also  had  died,  among 
the  English,  and  been  buried  among  them.  His 
cross  was  like  the  others,  but  the  French  custom 
is  to  paint  a  tear  upon  the  cross,  and  there  was 
one  on  each  English  cross,  on  the  German  none : 
and  on  the  German  grave  only  the  red  sand,  no 
plant  or  flower. 

"He?  Ah,  Monsieur,  he  was  an  enemy," 
urged  the  gentle  little  lady. 

"In  the  grave  there  are  no  enemies." 


118  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Next  time  the  Ancient  came  there  he  saw  that 
that  stranger's  grave  was  no  longer  bare.  Pa- 
triot, flaming  patriot,  as  every  French  woman  is, 
she  had  set  sweet  herbs  to  grow  upon  it,  and 
pansies. 

'*  'Pansies  for  thoughts,'  "  thought  the 
Ancient. 


VIII 

love's  labour's  lost? 

One  afternoon  about  six  o'clock  the  A.D.M.S. — 
Assistant  Director  of  Medical  Services,  that  is 
to  say  the  principal  Medical  Officer  of  the  Divi- 
sion— came  to  the  Ancient  and  said: 

*' To-night,  at  any  moment  in  fact,  we  may 
expect  a  considerable  number  of  wounded,  and 
we  have  only  this  field  to  receive  them  in." 

The  field  was,  so  far  as  beauty  of  surroundings 
went,  exquisitely  situated:  flat  itself,  it  formed 
the  table  of  a  little  plateau  from  which  steep 
grassy  meadows  fell  to  a  rich  river-bottom, 
beyond  which  were  hanging  woods.  But,  lovely 
as  the  scene  around  was,  the  situation  was  par- 
ticularly exposed :  it  was  entirely  bare  of  cover 
and  jutted  out  into  the  valley:  the  woods  were 
full  of  batteries,  themselves  of  course  the  object 
of  continual  bombardment;  and  enemy  aircraft 
had  been  continually  hovering  over  the  field 
itself,  and  continually  driven  away  by  our  own 
anti-aircraft  bombs. 

119 


120  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**I  should  like,"  said  the  A.D.M.S.,  '*to  find 
some  better  place  for  the  wounded.  Can  you 
help  us?" 

**I  will  try.  I  will  go  at  once  and  see.  But 
I  have  been  exploring  the  little  town  and  I  did 
not  notice  any  building  likely  to  contain  large 
rooms.  There  seems  to  be  no  chateau.  But 
there  is  a  school  and  there  is  a  church.  I  expect 
it  will  have  to  be  one  of  them. ' ' 

He  went  off  at  once  to  make  a  more  diligent 
search,  and  found  just  what  he  had  expected, 
no  house  that  promised  anything.  There  were 
several  villas,  prosperous  the  day  before  yester- 
day, now  all  disordered  and  dishonoured,  none 
with  any  large  hall  or  room.  The  other  houses 
were  very  small,  and  had  mostly  a  deserted  air, 
for  the  Germans  had  only  left  that  morning  and 
their  inhabitants  had  fled  and  were  not  yet 
returned. 

The  school  was  a  tall,  old-fashioned  building 
consisting  apparently  of  many  little  rooms  on 
several  floors.  To  carry  wounded  men  up  a 
narrow  staircase  would  be  out  of  the  question. 

There  only  remained  the  church:  and  the 
Ancient  had  some  diflSculty  in  finding  the  keys 
of  it.  The  priest  was  away  fighting  for  France, 
the  Mayor  had  gone  away  on  the  arrival  of  the 
Germans,  and  there  was  hardly  a  soul  about. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST     121 

There  really  were  people  in  some  of  the  houses, 
but  they  were  still  unwilling  to  show  themselves. 
They  knew  that  the  battle  was  being  fought 
hard  by  and  did  not  know  who  would  win  it:  if 
it  should  be  the  Germans  of  course  the  dreaded 
enemy  would  come  back. 

However  the  Ancient  went  into  one  of  these 
little  houses,  the  door  of  which  was  not  locked, 
and  in  an  out-house  at  the  back  he  found  an  old 
man  cowering  on  the  ground,  half -covered  with 
straw,  and  hiding  behind  a  very  small  cow.  At 
first  he  did  not  seem  disposed  for  conversation : 
he  was  perhaps  a  little  deaf,  and  he  was  certainly 
very  much  frightened. 

''Are  you  all  alone?"  asked  the  Ancient. 

The  old  man  only  grunted.  Either  he  had  not 
heard  or  he  thought  ''least  said  is  soonest 
mended." 

The  Ancient  went  close  up  to  him  and  said: 
' '  Courage,  my  friend.  I  am  only  an  old  person 
myself,  an  English  priest;  you  needn't  be  afraid. 
There  are  no  Boches  here,  only  some  English 
troops." 

"Many?" 

' '  No.    Not  very  many. '  * 

"I  wish  there  were  fifty  thousand.  But  there 
is  only  this  one  cow. ' ' 

"We  do  not  want  your  cowj  we  don't  want 


122  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

anything.  But  I  want  to  know  how  I  can  get 
into  the  church.  I  am  going  to  make  it  into  a 
hospital  for  the  wounded." 

The  old  man  slowly  stood  up ;  he  was  evidently 
stiff;  his  poor  bones  were  rheumatic,  and  I  dare 
say  he  had  been  cowering  there,  afraid  to  stir, 
for  a  day  and  a  night. 

"Where,"  asked  the  Ancient  carelessly,  "is 
your  wife?" 

"Where  there  are  no  Boches:  in  heaven." 

"And  you  live  alone?  Is  there  no  one 
else?" 

"There  is,"  said  the  old  man  slowly,  "my 
grandson.    His  father  is  at  the  war." 

The  Ancient  peered  about  for  the  grandson. 

"He,"  whispered  the  old  man,  "is  .  .  . 
behind  the  rabbits." 

He  was  giving  some  hay  to  the  cow,  who 
appeared  to  have  an  excellent  appetite. 

The  Ancient  went  out  of  the  little  shed  and 
searched  for  the  grandson.  There  was  a  tiny 
garden,  and  at  the  end  of  it  some  currant  bushes, 
rank  and  barren-looking.  Behind  them,  on  a 
sort  of  tressle,  were  half  a  dozen  rabbit-hutches ; 
behind  the  hutches  were  some  remarkably  fine 
nettles.  Cowering  among  the  nettles  was  a  thin 
boy  with  a  white  face  and  terrified  eyes. 

"Come!  you  need  not  be  afraid,"  said  the 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST?    123 

Ancient  repeating  his  formula,  ''I  am  an  English 
priest.  I  belong  to  the  English  Army.  Do 
come  out.    "What  is  your  name  ? ' ' 

**Guillaume,"  stammered  the  boy,  and  the 
Ancient  at  once  perceived  that  it  was  a  lie. 
During  the  horrible  eternity  of  hours  the  lad  had 
been  squatting  there  among  the  nettles  his  poor 
wits  had  been  devising  this  piteous  little  ruse. 
Perhaps  the  Bodies,  if  they  found  him,  would 
not  kill  the  Emperor's  name-sake. 

As  he  could  not  cry,  the  Ancient  laughed. 

**I'm  sure  your  grandfather  doesn't  call  you 
that,"  he  said,  with  decision.  ^'He  is  all  right. 
No  one  has  hurt  him:  no  one  is  going  to.  The 
English  are  here.  He  is  feeding  the  cow.  What 
does  he  call  you?" 

"  Francois." 

''That  is  my  name  too.  I  want  to  get  into 
the  church.  Who  has  a  key?  The  Mayor  has 
saved  himself:  there  is  no  priest." 

"The  priest  is  fighting." 

''Yes,  I  know.  I  know  he  did  not  run  away. 
Is  there  any  other  key?  I  want  to  arrange  a 
hospital  in  the  church.  But  I  can't  get  in.  Do 
help  me." 

"I  know  how  to  get  in.  I  know  where  there 
is  a  key.  The  sacristan  is  my  uncle.  Not  old, 
like  most  sacristans,  and  he  has  gone  to  the  war. 


124  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

But  I  lost  a  key:  I  used  to  help  him,  and  he 
gave  me  sous.  But  I  lost  the  key,  and  I  only 
found  it  three  day  ago.  You  really  are  English? 
Why  do  you  talk  French  T' 

''Because  I  supose  you  do  not  talk  English. 
Come  Frangois.'* 

His  grandfather  had  hobbled  down  and  said: 
**See,  he  has  only  one  hand.  The  other  was 
nearly  cut  off  on  a  chaff-cutter,  when  he  was 
seven  years  old,  and  it  turned  out  bad.  They  had 
to  cut  it  off.  If  the  Bodies  had  found  him  they 
would  have  cut  off  the  other  and  his  head  to 
make  up  for  his  not  having  two.  It  is,  as  Mon- 
sieur knows,  their  custom  to  cut  off  boys'  hands. 
Finding  only  one  they  would  naturally  cut  off 
this  boy's  head — to  make  up." 

FrauQois  shook  with  terror. 

"It  is  no  use  telling  him  such  things,"  urged 
the  Ancient.  ''Besides  we  are  not  to  suppose 
that  all  Boches  are  equally  cruel." 

The  old  man  trembled  now. 

"You  are  sure,"  he  quavered  miserably,  "that 
you  are  English?'* 

"  Absolutely  sure.  I  never  liked  the  Germans. 
But  it  is  absurd  to  think  they  are  all  devils." 

"It  is  anyway  clear,"  said  the  grandfather, 
"that  Monsieur  is  not  French." 

The  Ancient  knew  very  well  that  the  old  fellow 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST     125 

was  not  alluding  to  his  accent,  but  he  said 
cheerfully : 

*  *  I  know  my  tongue  is  not.    But  my  heart  is. ' ' 

They  were  all  three  walking  up  the  little 
garden.  It  was  growing  dusk.  All  the  while 
came  the  ugly,  angry  noise  of  fierce  artillery-fire. 

*'  Francois,"  said  the  Ancient,  'Mo  be  quick. 
I  want  that  key.    I  have  lost  a  lot  of  time. ' ' 

The  key  was  in  a  pair  of  blue  cotton  trousers 
hung  behind  the  door  in  the  cottage. 

**  There  is  nothing  in  this  cottage,"  observed 
the  old  man  earnestly,  **  except  what  you  see. 
No  money.  We  have  none.  Money  is  in  rich 
people's  houses." 

*'  I  wonder,"  thought  the  Ancient,  *'  where  it 
is." 

It  seemed  a  good  thing  that  the  Germans  had 
not  come  there;  the  poor  old  fellow  would  have 
said  just  the  same  things. 

There  were  no  lights  in  any  of  the  cottages. 
But  a  few  women  had  crept  out.  They  must 
have  seen  from  some  peeping-holes  the  Ancient 
go  into  the  cottage  where  Francois  and  his 
grandfather  lived. 

'*  Mesdames,"  said  the  Ancient,  sick  of  his 
formula  ,"  Francois  is  going  to  open  the  church 
for  me.  I  am  going  to  arrange  a  little  hospital 
in  it.    I  am  an  English  priest.    We  expect  many 


126  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

wounded.  Is  there  anything  you  could  bring 
me  r' 

Poor  creatures!  They  had  been  cowed;  and 
had  cause,  no  doubt,  for  weary  anxiety  still: 
who  could  tell  how  this  battle  would  go?  But 
they  were  French,  and  full  of  generosity;  and 
were  wives,  or  sisters,  or  mothers  of  soldiers. 

"What  does  Monsieur  want  I"  asked  a  woman 
with  a  fine  but  not  very  gentle  face.  She  was 
perhaps  the  last  to  whom,  of  all  the  little  group 
that  had  gathered  round  him,  the  Ancient  would 
have  appealed.  Thus  we  are  stupid,  and  judge 
good  books  by  their  austere  binding. 

''Ah,  Madame!  What  do  I  not  want?  There 
is  the  church — and  that  is  all.  To  lay  a  shat- 
tered hrave  down  on  the  hard  flags — that  also  is 
hard. ' ' 

"Of  the  hardest.  Come,  Mesdames!'^ 

And  the  hard-featured  woman  assumed  com- 
mand. They  all  went  off  after  her.  In  ten 
minutes  they,  and  others  whom  they  had  en- 
listed, brought  the  Ancient  twenty-seven  mat- 
tresses, nearly  fifty  blankets ;  and  in  half  an  hour 
they  had  brought  him,  in  all,  forty-eight  mat- 
tresses or  beds,  over  sixty  blankets  and  duvets, 
many  pillows,  and  milk,  wine  and  eggs  and  a  lit- 
tle cognac — and  they  had  hardly  dared  to  eat 
all  day  or  all  the  day  before. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST?    127 

''It  is  poor  people's  stuff,"  said  Madame  of 
the  hard  face,  ''but.  Monsieur,  it  is  all  we  have." 

"I  cannot  thank  you.  God  must.  Your 
French  St.  Martin  gave  Jesus  Christ  half  his 
cloak,  and  how  He  boasted  of  it  in  Heaven  that 
night!  He  is  showing  these  beds  to  St.  Martin, 
and  St.  Denis,  and  St.  Remy  now,  and  saying, 
'Look  what  your  daughters  have  given  me  to  lie 
upon — their  own  beds:  their  only  beds:  the 
beds  whereon  their  babies  were  born.'  Eh, 
Mesdames,  He  will  be  proud  of  His  Church's 
eldest  daughter." 

"Ah!  Monsieur,  then,  is  Catholic  too?  Tant 
mieux!  We  did  not  know  for  sure.  English 
Pasteurs  come  and  say  they  are  Catholic,  and 
afterwards  we  find  they  are  not  of  our  faith. 
We  thought  you  might  be  a  pasteur  also.  But 
we  knew  you  wanted  what  we  could  give  pour 
vos  braves:  it  was  enough:  your  soldiers  come 
here  and  are  killed  for  us.  It  is  not  much  that 
we  give  an  old  bed  for  them  to  die  on. ' ' 

"Now,"  said  another  woman,  "shall  we  help 
you?  You  are  alone  to  do  everything — and  have 
you  done  all  that?" 

"Yes.  I  had  to  do  something  while  I  waited: 
but  I  was  not  alone,  Frangois  helped  me.  There 
would  not  be  room  in  the  aisles,  so  we  moved  all 
the  benches.    Frangois  with  his  one  hand  does 


128  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

as  much  as  two  men  with  two  hands  each.'*  He 
had  indeed  worked  like  a  Trojan:  and  his  old 
grandfather  helped  too.  He  had  a  rather  rough 
old  tongue  now  he  had  found  it. 

**It  is  a  pity,"  he  had  observed,  pointing  a 
rheumatic  finger  at  the  pulpit,  ''that  M.  I'Abbe 
cannot  be  there  to  preach.  That  would  help  the 
wounded  to  sleep." 

The  little  church  soon  began  to  look  quite  like 
a  hospital.  The  beds  lay  in  rows  up  the  nave 
and  south  aisle — the  north  was  full  of  the  benches 
and  chairs.  Also  the  two  chapels  made  tiny 
wards. 

"I  will  go  and  finish  making  my  soup,"  said 
Madame  of  the  hard  face,  "it  will  be  hot,  and 
perhaps  the  poor  men  will  like  it,  though  it  is 
only  our  soup,  not  grande  chose,  you  under- 
stand. ' ' 

"I  also  have  some  soup  nearly  ready,"  another 
woman  declared;  "it  isn't  splendid  but  it  has  a 
hen  in  it.  My  old  man  was  frightened  when  a 
shell  fell  in  the  paddock  and  tumbled  over  on  her. 
He  is  heavy,  my  honhomme,  and  she  was  ecrasee, 
so  I  undressed  her  and  put  her  in  the  pot." 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  Ancient,  "it  is  a  shame 
to  steal  your  soup " 

"  Sh!  When  the  thief  is  given  leave  he 
becomes  an  honest  man,"  declared  the  hard- 


LOVE 'S  LABOUR 'S  LOST  f  129 

faced  woman;  whose  name,  by  the  way,  proved 
to  be  Madame  Martel. 

^'  Yes.  But  listen.  I  know  this  soup  is  for 
your  dinners,  and  for  the  dinners  of  your  fam- 
ilies. But  see,  I  have  here  this  packet.  It  con- 
tains English  stuff  called  Oxo,  each  of  the  little 
cubes  will  make  half  a  litre  of  soup.  But  it  needs 
boiling  water  and  I  have  none.  Will  you  take 
the  cubes — there  are  a  hundred  of  them — and 
make  soup  of  them  for  me,  between  you,  and 
bring  it  here  when  I  am  ready  for  it  ?" 

*'  We  will  mix  it  with  some  of  our  thin  soup, 
and  the  vegetables  will  make  it  better." 

**  Very  well.  It  is  most  singularly  good  of 
you  to  take  so  much  trouble." 

*'  And  you?  You  are  not  precisely  a  little 
boy.  The  work  has  made  Monsieur  very 
hot." 

**  And  very  dirty.  But  that  doesn't  matter, 
Doesn't  this  chapel  make  a  nice  little  ward?" 

**  Yes.  It  is  a  pity  She"  (with  a  nod  at  the 
Blessed  Virgin's  statue)  *'  can't  come  down  to 
soigner  the  wounded.  She  would  like  that.  She 
is  a  Mother  and  knows  what  it  is  like  to  see  her 
Son  hurt." 

This  again  was  Madame  Martel.  She  and  the 
Ancient  were  now  alone  in  the  little  chapel. 

**  You  have  sons?" 


130  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**  Two.  They  are  both  at  the  war.  They  are 
twins — Philippe  and  Philippin." 

*'  May  they  both  come  home  safe  and  sound. 
I  will  say  Mass  for  them. ' ' 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  quietly,  ''  for  Philippe 
the  Mass  should  be  en  noir.  He  was  killed  the 
first  day.'* 

She  did  not  sob,  nor  were  her  eyes  wet. 

*'  Monsieur,"  she  said,  touching  the  priest's 
arm,  *'  do  not  weep.  Heureux  ceux  qui  meurent 
pour  la  patrie.  Out  of  the  soil  of  this  France 
we  who  are  peasants  live.  She  feeds  her  children 
from  her  breast.  She  has  a  right  to  her  sons' 
lives.  They  die  to  save  that  mother's  breast 
from  pollution.  Heureux  ceux  qui  meurent  pour 
la  patrie:  heureux  ceux  qui  pleurent  pour  les 
braves.  My  lad's  blood  will  wash  out  the  stain 
of  one  German  footstep  anyway.  I  go  to  make 
the  soup." 

It  was  nearly  dark  now  in  the  church:  they 
had  lighted  a  few  lamps,  and  one  of  them  was 
set  on  the  steps  of  the  pulpit.  Frangois  was 
seated  there  waiting  to  be  told  what  he  should 
do  next :  a  girl  was  talking  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  head  was  swathed  in  hideous  bandages, 
and  horrible  straps  of  plaster  were  stuck  across 
her  face :  one  of  them  entirely  covered  the  right 
eye. 


LOVE 'S  LABOUR 'S  LOST  ?  131 

*'  How  did  you  get  hurt!"  the  Ancient  asked 
her  gently. 

''I  am  not  hurt.  I  did  it  myself — and  my 
mother  helped  me." 

She  moved  away,  and  the  Ancient  saw  that 
she  was  very  lame. 

"  Monsieur,"  whispered  Francois,  *'  she  was 
afraid  of  the  Boches.  She  is  beautiful,  only  she 
is  lame  and  can  only  walk  a  little  and  slowly. 
She  had  splendid  hair — lots  of  it.  She  cut  it  all 
off,  in  jags,  close  to  the  skull,  and  made  herself 
horrible  with  those  bandages.  It  was  her  old 
uncle.  Monsieur  Fere  of  the  pharmacie,  who  gave 
her  the  plaster.  She  is  frightful,  is  she  not!  I 
suppose  she  is  ashamed.  And  she  is  vain  and 
dresses  very  prettily,  and  she  is  of  the  most 
clean.  She  is  ashamed  of  those  filthy  rags  in 
which  she  dressed  herself." 

Was  she?  Perhaps;  for  we  are  always  being 
ashamed  of  the  wrong  things. 

*'  Look  Monsieur,"  said  Francois,  with  a  tug 
at  the  Ancient's  coat,  "  two  English  officers  who 
are  at  the  door." 

They  came  to  see  what  had  been  done,  and 
were  full  of  commendation. 

''  Jeanne  Fere  is  ashamed  lest  they  see  her," 
whispered  Francois.  ''See  she  hides  behind  the 
door  till  she  can  slip  out.    If  Philippin  Martel 


132  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

came  home  quickly  from  the  war;  what  would 
she  do  if  he  came  before  her  hair  grew?  She  is 
betrothed  to  Philippin  Martel." 

The  English  officers  went  round  the  church, 
praised  what  had  been  done,  and  went  away.* 
No.  wounded,  they  reported,  had  come  in  yet. 

* '  Monsieur, ' '  asked  one  of  the  women,  coming 
down  the  little  place  on  which  the  church  stood, 
*'  are  you  not  hungry?  I  could  make  an 
omelette." 

**  Not  hungry  at  all,  but  filthy.  Could  you 
lend  me  a  cuvette,  with  water  and  soap?" 

"  Of  course.  But  Monsieur,  only  the  angels 
can  see  in  this  light :  and  they  don 't  mind.  Clean 
hearts  and  dirty  hands  often  go  together.  Mon 
Z)ie2*.^  what  is  that?" 

Nothing  very  strange:  only  a  shell  that  had 
fallen  on  a  tallish  house  doAvn  the  street,  perhaps 
a  hundred  yards  away;  not  in  the  direction  of 
our  field  but  eastward  of  the  church — if  the  altar 
was  duly  orientated.  Soon  another  fell  nearer 
to  the  church,  and  it  became  apparent  that  the 
Germans  were  now  making  the  church  a  mark; 
it  stood  high  on  the  edge  of  a  steep  bluff  at  the 
end  of  the  place.  It  seemed  obvious  that  they 
were  not  only  aiming  at  the  church  but  getting 
the  range. 

•  They  are  both   killed  novr. 


LOVE 'S  LABOUR 'S  LOST  ?  133 

The  lamps  inside  the  church  were  feeble 
enough,  and  so  far  did  not  light  up  the  windows : 
but  when  it  should  be  quite  dark  they  might. 
It  seemed  best  to  the  Ancient  to  go  in  and  put 
them  all  out,  one  by  one,  which  he  did. 

He  guessed  already  that  the  little  hospital  the 
women  had  furnished  with  beds  would  never  be 
used.  The  place  would  be  considered  too 
dangerous.    And  so  it  proved. 

He  went  and  reported  to  the  orderly  officer  of 
the  A.D.M.S.,  a  very  kind  and  friendly  Major. 

^'  All  your  trouble  for  nothing,"  he  said  re- 
gretfully, ' '  it  would  have  been  an  excellent  little 
dressing-station;  but  the  field,  when  it  is  quite 
dark,  will  be  safer.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to 
give  up  the  church. ' ' 

The  A.D.M.S.  decided  that  it  must  be  so. 

And  so  all  the  labour  of  love  of  those  poor 
women  was  wasted — ' '  Or  else,  no, ' '  as  they  say 
in  Scotland. 


IX 

FEENCH  WINDOWS 

From  the  18th  to  the  31st  of  October  (1914)  the 
Ancient  was,  as  has  been  told  in  the  seventh  of 
these  papers,  helping  certain  officers  of  his  unit 
to  carry  on  a  Clearing  Hospital  at  B.,  an  old 
town  of  what  was  once  Spanish  Flanders — and 
is  now  a  part  of  the  French  Department  of  the 
Nord.  Besides  our  own  there  was,  quite  at  the 
other  end  of  the  town,  another  very  large  Clear- 
ing Hospital  for  British  troops,  and  this,  having 
no  Catholic  Chaplain  of  its  own,  though  not 
officially  in  his  care,  did  actually  during  those 
days  form  part  of  the  Ancient's  charge.  Not 
far  from  it  was  a  much  smaller  hospital,  carried 
on  by  the  Dames  de  France,  and  visited  by  the 
Ancient  because  certain  of  its  patients  had 
originally  been  brought  in  from  the  battle-field 
to  our  own  hospital,  and  kept  by  us  for  several 
days.  Of  them  a  word  presently.  There  was 
a  fourth  hospital,  called  the  Hospic  Civil  et 
Militaire.     In    peace    time    it    was    simply    a 

134 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  135 

hospice  for  old  men  and  women,  in  charge  of 
Franciscan  nuns,  and  much  resembling  a  Convent 
of  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  Just  before  the 
war  began,  however,  immense  additions  had 
been  made  to  it,  and  the  nuns  immediately 
handed  over  the  new  block  for  the  reception  of 
wounded  soldiers,  they  themselves  undertaking 
the  nursing,  in  addition  to  their  already  heavy 
work  in  the  care  of  their  regular  inmates,  who 
remained  in  an  earlier,  but  quite  modern  and 
excellent,  wing.  The  Sisters  continued  to  in- 
habit the  very  old,  and  I  should  say  much  worse 
than  obsolete,  portion  of  the  buildings  (dating 
from  the  sixteenth  or  early  seventeenth  century) 
nearest  the  street :  noisy,  close,  airless,  dark,  and 
dismal.  These  buildings  were  crowded  round  a 
small  and  gloomy  courtyard,  and  one  only  had 
to  glance  at  them  to  appreciate  the  self-sacrifice 
of  those  devoted  and  noble  women.  They  were 
all  excellent,  but  their  Superioress  was  a  quite 
remarkable  person,  capable,  ever-ready,  and  a 
first-rate  organizer.  She  was  a  trained  anaes- 
thetist, and  almost  nightly  would  be  at  work  in 
the  operating  theatre  till  it  was  night  no  longer, 
and  then  would  take  a  very  brief  sleep ;  she  was 
always  in  chapel  in  her  place,  when  the  Ancient 
went  to  say  Mass  there  at  half -past  six  or  seven. 
To  her  Queen  Alexandra  wrote  a  very  gracious 


136  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

and  kindly  letter,  thanking  her  and  her  nuns  for 
their  care  of  the  English  soldiers :  for  two  large 
wards  had  been  given  over  entirely  to  our 
wounded,  while  wounded  English  officers  were 
welcomed  in  other  parts  of  the  hospice.  One  of 
our  Medical  Officers,  a  genial  ajid  very  clever 
New  Zealander,  had  charge  of  these  cases,  and 
was  a  skilled  operator.  I  do  not  propose  to  say 
more  of  him  and  his  work  at  B.  lest  it  should 
seem  that  he  and  I  were  playing  a  very  popular 
game,  for  in  his  book  ''  A  Surgeon  in  Khaki"  he 
has  had  far  too  much  to  say  of  '*  Monsignor."* 

Those  Masses  in  the  hospice  chapel  one  will 
not  easily  forget.  There  were  the  nuns — most 
of  whom  had  been  at  work  half,  and  more  than 
half,  the  night,  and  all  the  long  day  before: 
some  of  whom  were  too  old  for  any  work,  and 
crept  slowly  to  their  places,  with  failing  step  that 
would  soon  carry  them  on  a  very  long  journey: 
into  the  gathering  silence  of  their  last  days  here' 
had  burst  the  terrible  clatter  and  din  of  war. 

There  were  good  folk  from  the  toWn;  almost 
all  in  deep  mourning.  And  almost  always  there 
were  tressels  before  the  altar,  on  which  lay  a 
young  hero's  coffin  presently  to  be  carried  out 
to  its  final  rest.  Sometimes  there  were  two  or 
three,  sometimes  half  a  dozen.    Draped  with  the 

*  He  has  been  killed  since  these  words  were  written. 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  137 

Tricolour,  those  silent  heroes  seemed  praying  for 
the  soil  of  France  to  be  purged  from  the  Sang 
Impair  that  stained  it ;  their  deaths  prayed  for  it. 

One  morning  a  Lancashire  soldier  went  with 
the  Ancient  to  hear  that  Mass.  His  stalwart 
frame  stood  up  pretty  high  above  the  old  bent 
figures  of  fathers  come  to  pray  for  the  sons  they 
had  given  to  France.  A  quick,  involuntary, 
sidewards  shake  of  the  head  gave  a  very  simple, 
eloquent  tribute  of  pity  and  respect.  He  looked 
beyond  that  little  patient,  mourning  crowd,  to 
the  veiled  circle  of  the  nuns.  Then  they  sang, 
and  the  rather  weird  thin  music  was  all  a 
threnody,  unmistakable,  and  a  cry  to  Christ  for 
France. 

*' What  did  you  think  of  it?"  the  Ancient 
asked  him  at  the  end. 

**  I  never  saw  the  like,"  he  answered,  and 
somehow  it  was  enough. 

**  Eh  I"  he  said  later  on,  still  with  that  side- 
wards abrupt  head-shake,  '' England  isn't  cut 
like  that." 

One  afternoon  he  went  with  his  master  to  go 
round  the  whole  of  that  hospital,  carrying  a  sack 
containing  about  five  thousand  cigarettes.  Of 
course  it  took  a  long  time,  as  the  wards  seemed 
countless,  and  each  soldier  liked  to  have  his 
cigarettes  given  to  him  individually,  and  natur- 


138  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

ally  wished  to  talk  a  little.  The  extreme  com- 
fort, the  exquisite  cleanliness,  and  the  perfect 
peace  and  stillness  of  those  light,  lofty,  airy  and 
yet  well- warmed  wards  immensely  impressed  the 
young  Lancashire  man.  It  was  abundantly  clear 
on  what  a  kindly  and  sympathetic  footing  the 
nuns  were  with  their  soldier-patients :  and  what 
specially  touched  the  young  Englishman  was 
that  the  lads  who  helped  the  Sisters  as  bran- 
cardiers  in  the  wards  were  ecclesiastical  stu- 
dents, who  had  to  lay  aside  for  awhile  their 
treaties  to  read  in  this  great  book  of  charity. 

French  soldiers  are  always  delighted  to  get 
hold  of  English  cigarettes,  and  they  seemed  even 
more  pleased  to  have  the  chance  of  talking  with 
an  Englishman  who  was  at  once  a  priest  and  an 
officer.  To  him  the  only  drawback  was  that  the 
talk  had  to  be  so  brief.  (It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  this  was  only  a  visit  of  friendliness: 
they  had  a  perfectly  devoted,  most  kind  and 
large-hearted,  French  chaplain  of  their  own.) 
For  they  were  quite  delightful :  and  as  ready  to 
open  their  hearts  as  their  mouths.  Each  of 
them  was  a  different  window  opened  into  that 
splendid  and  gracious  thing  the  heart  of  the 
French  people,  and  giving  each  a  different 
glimpse  of  character,  surroundings,  calling,  and 
locality.     For  there  were  lads  and  fathers  of 


FEENCH  WINDOWS  139 

families,  ''educated"  and  uneducated,  blond 
and  stalwart  Normans,  dark  and  lean  southern- 
ers, Parisians,  Lyonnais,  Marseillais,  Gascons, 
men  from  the  western  sea-board,  mountaineers 
from  Alps  and  Pyrenees,  cultivateurs  and  clerks, 
sons  of  the  chateau  and  of  the  slum,  merry-eyed 
Provengaux,  and  wistful-faced  youths  from  the 
solemn  and  silent  landes.  It  would  have  been 
fascinating  employment  for  an  afternoon  to  sit 
by  any  one  of  them,  and  enjoy  the  generously 
given  confidence,  to  look  leisurely  at  the  home- 
pictures  deftly  painted  in  a  word  or  two,  and 
change  into  a  friendship  what  could  only  be  the 
realization  that  it  was  worth  having  and  freely 
offered :  to  hurry  on  was  abominable,  and  it  was 
hard  to  turn  back  at  the  door  of  the  ward  to  see 
such  friendly  eyes  watch  one's  going,  such 
intimate  and  kindly  little  gestures  of  farewell, 
and  hearing  so  tempting  a  chorus  of  ''  Au  revoir, 
Monsieur  !     A  tantot  !" 

^'  Au  revoir,  mes  gosses,  hien  sur!  quelque 
part,  quelque  temps.    Au  revoir." 

Ah  where?    Ah  when? 

That  was  the  worst  of  those  terribly  crowded 
days  at  B. — the  hurry:  for  the  work  in  our  own 
hospital  was  always  much  more  than  enough  to 
keep  one  very  busy  indeed,  and  the  visits  to  the 
other  three  hospitals  had  to  be  snatched  from 


140  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

the  time  belonging  to  it,  in  something  the  fashion 
in  which  some  housekeepers  squeeze  money  for 
good  works  out  of  the  housekeeping  money  they 
have  to  administer !  When  setting  out  from  his 
own  hospital,  to  dash  off  to  one  of  the  others, 
the  Ancient  always  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  he 
ought  not  to  go  at  all,  and  at  each  of  the  others 
he  felt  that  he  ought  to  stay  here  and  not  go 
back  at  all. 

As  to  the  French  wounded  brought  in  among 
our  o%vn  men  from  the  battle-field  to  our  hospital, 
four  or  five  became  specially  friends  of  the 
Ancient,  and  are  friends  still,  writing  to  him  very 
regularly.  One  was  a  young  Sergeant,  from 
Savoie;  very  dark,  with  great  black  eyes  that, 
when  they  were  not  singularly  gentle  and  tender, 
looked  fierce  and  quarrelsome.  He  was  almost 
black  with  smoke  and  dust  when  he  came  in; 
he  had  had  no  means  of  washing  for  a  week,  and 
later  on  the  Ancient  perceived  that  he  was 
extremely  coquet,  half  a  dandy,  and  that  the 
grime  and  filth  had  annoyed  him  even  more  than 
the  very  bad  wound  in  his  hip.  He  was  grateful, 
out  of  all  proportion,  for  the  little  soins  the 
Ancient  was  able  to  render  him :  and  his  thanks 
were  voluble  to  eloquence. 

' '  I  believe, '  *  said  the  Ancient  laughing,  ' '  that 
talking  is  your  trade." 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  141 

"So  it  is.  I  am  comme  metier,  commis- 
voyageur.'^ 

All  the  same  it  was  not  quite  easy  to  picture 
him  as  a  commercial  traveller.  He  was  all  over 
a  young  warrior,  and  rather  a  blood-thirsty 
looking  one.  It  would  have  made  a  conscientious 
objector  feel  creepy  to  hear  him  talk  of  Germans, 
and  tell  of  things  he  had  seen ;  and  for  my  part 
I  thought  it  much  healthier  to  be  an  Englishman 
making  soup  for  him  than  a  Boche  asking  him 
for  quarter.  I  could  too  distinctly  hear  him  say 
with  those  blazing  eyes  of  his, ''  As  for  your  soul, 
ask  the  Bon  Dieu  to  take  it,  if  he  likes  it.  For 
me,  I  am  preventing  your  body  from  doing  any 
more  harm."  He  was  a  lonely  person:  not,  he 
said,  apt  to  make  friends.  He  had  one  great 
love — for  his  mother. 

"  You  see,"  he  said  once,  **she  has  no  one  else. 
I  am  all  the  child  she  has.  And  I  never  had  a 
father.  He  must  have  been  bad :  for  she  is  good, 
look  you,  good,  good,  good.  A  dog  of  a  gentle- 
man, he.  And  it  is  I  who  stand  between  her 
and  a  broken  heart.  Please  do  not  say  anything. 
Only  if  I  go  back,  and  then  do  not  come  back — 
write  to  her.    Eh  I" 

He  never  seemed  to  sleep;  for,  at  whatever 
hour  of  the  night  the  Ancient  came  into  the  ward, 
those  gaunt  eyes  were  turned  to  the  door,  wide 


142  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

open,  and  burning  like  a  black  fire.  In  another 
place  I  hope  to  tell  how  tenderly  he  did  for  me 
a  work  of  gracious  charity. 

A  very  different  lad  Was  a  young  Norman 
cuUivateur  who  came  in  on  the  same  night.  The 
Ancient  found  him  lying  on  a  stretcher  in  a  very 
large  and  very  crowded  ward.  Only  a  third  of 
the  wounded  could  be  given  any  sort  of  bed :  the 
rest  lay  on  the  floor,  on  straw  or  on  the  stretchers 
in  which  they  had  been  brought  in.  He  was 
wounded  in  the  thigh,  and  suffered  plenty  of 
pain,  but  quite  stolidly.  He  never  asked  for 
anything,  or  seemed  to  expect  anything. 

"  Are  you  hungry  or  thirsty?"  asked  the 
Ancient,  kneeling  down  in  the  corner  (it  was 
almost  behind  a  door)  by  his  side. 

^'  All  the  two,  Monsieur.  But  that  makes 
nothing. ' ' 

''  I  can't  make  much  either,  but  I  can  make 
coffee  and  soup,  and  I'll  go  and  do  it." 

He  seemed  mildly  surprised,  and  he  mildly 
smiled.  When  they  were  brought  he  watched 
the  Ancient  over  the  brim  of  the  cup,  as  a  horse 
might  watch  the  man  who  had  brought  him 
unexpected  hay,  over  the  edge  of  a  manger. 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  the  Ancient,  **you  are 
Norman. ' ' 

*atisthat." 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  143 

''CuUivateurr' 

"  Yes.    Who  told  you?" 

*'  The  look  of  your  big  hands." 

"  I  am  from  St.  Martin  I'Eglise.  Widow 
Guilbert  is  my  mother.  She  keeps  the  little 
coffee-shop  at  the  corner  past  the  bridge.  There 
is  a  little  land.  I  work  on  it.  Henri  too.  Only 
he  is  doing  this:  like  me.    I  am  Charles." 

**  Your  brother,  Henri  ?" 

' '  Matilde  's  husband. ' ' 

'^  Is  Madame  Matilde  your  only  sister  V 

'^  There  is  also  Gervaise,  but  she  died  three 
days  before  the  Day  of  the  Kings.  Jean  is 
doing  this:  like  me." 

*'  He  is  husband  of  Madame  Gervaise  ?" 

''That  is  it:— Eh,  but  I  was  cold.  That 
warms  the  stomach." 

"  Yes.    But  you  must  have  blankets — ' — " 

"  Monsieur  also  makes  blankets!  Is  the  war 
nearly  finished  ?" 

' '  God  knows  that !  I  'm  going  to  get  blankets. 
Then  you  can  sleep." 

He  was  a  Chasseur  a  Cheval.  And  when  the 
Ancient  came  back  Charles  Guilbert  said: 

"  My  horse  was  killed;  ga  m'emhete.  He 
hadn't  done  any  harm  to  Guillaume." 

"  Nor  you  either,  for  that  matter,"  said  the 
Ancient  laughing. 


144  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

**  No.  But  I  would  if  I  could.  He  has  caused 
them  to  kill  my  horse.  I  like  horses  hest.  They 
do  not  mock  themselves  of  one,  if  one  is  Mte. 
When  you  go  to  Mass  the  people  round  the 
church,  outside,  amuse  themselves  thus;  ga 
m'embete.  Most  of  all  when  girls  do  it.  I  find 
that  out  of  place.  For  girls  are  only  a  sort  of 
men,  less  strong,  and  expect  much  help  in  the 
fields  when  it  is  harvest.  Then  they  mock 
themselves  of  you  (when  they  are  all  together 
and  you  go  by,  and  they  need  no  help  any  more). 
Do  you  find  that  right?" 

*'  Oh  no!  I  suppose  there  is  one  worse  than 
the  others?" 

**  You  know  that  also  ?  Philomene  is  the 
worst.  And  it  is  she  who  expects  most  help  in 
harvest  time." 

*'  A  disagreeable  girl,  evidently." 

'*  Perhaps  not.    You  know  Normandy  well?" 

**  Very  little  indeed.  But  my  people  came 
from  there — from  very  near  your  pays:  from 
Arques  la  Bataille." 

**  From  Arques!    The  next  pays.'* 

And  so  for  ever  so  long  Charles  Guilbert 
talked,  and  was  happy,  of  his  home,  and  his 
work  in  the  fields  (sighing  to  get  back  to  it), 
and  a  certain  small  brother  Philippin.  Long 
afterwards    Philippin    crept    up    on    to    the 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  145 

Ancient's  knee,  in  the  neat,  plain,  prosperous 
Norman  home,  to  ask  whispered  questions  about 
Charles  a  la  guerre. 

But  the  Ancient  never  saw  Philomene,  and  the 
Veuve  Guilbert  sniffed  when  he  inquired  casually 
concerning  that  young  woman's  health. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  ward  at  B.,  Charles  talked 
with  contented  eyes  of  toil  and  home,  and  yon 
would  never  have  thought  that  he  had  a  lump 
of  "  skrapnel,"  as  he  called  it,  in  his  thigh. 

I  am  getting  on  rather  slowly.  But  that  was 
what  one  always  felt;  one  was  getting  on  very 
slowly,  with  so  much  to  do.  And  if  you  hurry 
too  much,  lonely  creatures  don't  get  much  com- 
fort out  of  you.  I  think  a  wounded  French  lad, 
in  a  crowded  English  hospital,  where  no  one  talks 
French,  is  apt  to  feel  lonely ;  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  God,  who  has  all  Eternity  to  do  things  in, 
must  be  patient  with  an  old  man  who  has  but 
a  very  little  time.  It  never  worried  one  to  fancy 
that  He  was  saying,  **  Why  aren't  you  doing 
something  else  f "  if  the  thing  being  done  had 
cropped  up,  and  was  a  decent  thing  in  its  way. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  only  the  French 
wounded  were  grateful  and  gracious  for  the  small 
homely  services  rendered  to  them.  Our  own, 
English,  Irish,  and  Scots,  were  just  as  kind.  It 
was  a  very  busy  but  a  very  happy  time,  if  one 


146  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

can  say  that  decently  of  a  time  during  which  one 
saw  so  much  suffering.  It  had  its  little  jokes 
too,  as  when  a  young  soldier,  whose  own  clothes 
had  heen  torn  to  ribbons  and  utterly  spoiled  by 
blood  and  dirt,  set  forth  from  the  hospital,  for 
the  train  that  was  to  take  him  to  Boulogne,  in 
an  uncommonly  shabby  black  coat  and  a  pair  of 
black  trousers  that  made  knicker-bocker  breeches 
on  his  unduly  long  legs.  He  was  quite  un- 
perturbed by  the  chaff  that  his  rig  occasioned, 
and  assumed  a  certain  clerical  air  that  was  far 
funnier  than  his  trousers. 

The  end  of  those  days  came,  as  everything 
came,  rather  suddenly.  And  one  foggy  morning 
(with  a  promise  of  sun,  however)  we  marched 
away  from  B.  to  rejoin  our  headquarters  where- 
ever  we  could  find  them. 

We  passed  through  three  villages  that  day, 
and  in  the  first  we  had  our  first  sight  of  the 
Indian  troops.  About  four  in  the  afternoon  we 
came  to  M.,  a  considerable  village,  of  one  long 
and  wide  street,  whose  houses  were  substantial 
and  comfortable-looking.  At  a  largo,  as  it  would 
be  called  in  Naples,  stood  the  church,  large  and 
fine ;  and  at  right  angles  to  it,  a  bit  further  down 
the  hill,  the  Mairie.  We  sought  the  Mayor 
within,  to  arrange  about  billets,  and  found  him 
• — a  crooked,  crunched-up,  weazened,  preposter- 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  147 

ously-cranky-looking  personage,  with  a  brown 
death's-head  for  a  face,  and  awful  hands  with 
talons  for  fingers.  Those  fingers  were  bent  and 
twisted  in  all  directions,  as  were  his  lean  legs, 
as  were  his  flappy  ears — as  were  all  his  features. 

He  looked  absurdly  eighteenth-century — old 
before  the  Revolution,  but  not  too  old,  when  it 
came,  to  enjoy  with  all  his  twisted  being  the 
denouncing  of  royalists. 

He  looked  so  exaggeratedly  unpleasant  that 
it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  convinced  that  he 
must  be  pleasanter  than  his  looks.  Still,  he 
was  not  pleasant,  and  he  was  far  from  desiring 
to  seem  so.  Ultimately,  however,  he  gave  us  a 
ramshackle  school  for  the  men,  and  without  his 
permission  I  discovered  a  place  that  I  was  quite 
determined  should  be  our  billet  for  that  night. 
It  was  a  chateau,  a  real  chateau,  just  beyond 
the  village;  the  house  itself  very  large  indeed, 
and  around  it  what  had  been  extensive  and 
imposing  grounds.  Yet  it  was  obvious  at  the 
first  glance  that  it  was  no  longer  a  chateau  in 
the  sense  of  being  the  abode  of  any  family  of 
position.  It  looked,  but  was  not,  unoccupied. 
None  of  its  doors  or  countless  windows  had  the 
air  of  being  ever  opened.  It  refused  to  have 
an  outlook,  and  was  cynically  shut  up  in  itself. 
It  was  not  in  the  least  ruinous;  nevertheless 


148  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

Ichabod  was  stamped  all  over  it.  The  grounds 
must  have  been  once  the  pride  and  pleasure  of 
fine  folk  who  had  a  taste  for  what  was  fine,  and 
not  ugly.  They  were  now,  not  neglected  but 
superseded:  the  parterres  lay  under  close- 
cropped  grass  where  sheep  nibbled:  against  the 
statues  calves  rubbed  themselves.  There  was  a 
pretty  lake  with  an  island,  and  a  really  beautiful 
stone  bridge  led  to  it  from  the  bank,  itself  sus- 
tained by  a  solid  retaining  wall  of  ''rustic" 
stone  (Inigo  Jones  type),  topped  by  a  handsome 
stone  balustrade.  Almost  all  the  windows  on 
the  ground  floor  and  first  floor  were  shuttered — 
tall,  wide  windows  such  as  only  imposing  saloons 
would  boast.    There  were  two  higher  floors. 

The  Ancient  went  back  to  the  Mayor  and 
asked  boldly  for  billets  at  the  chateau. 

"  There  is  abundance  of  room,"  he  declared, 
*'  and  we  don't  want  anything  but  shelter.  We 
have  our  own  food,  and  our  own  bedding." 

The  Mayor  pretended  difficulties,  but  could 
not  formulate  them,  and  the  billets  were  given. 

Then  the  Ancient  went  off — it  was  half  a  mile 
or  more  away — to  get  possession.  Passing 
through  a  sufficiently  imposing  gateway  with  a 
lodge  beside  it,  he  encountered  an  old  man,  who 
instantly  proclaimed  himself  too  deaf  to  hear 
anything — but  into  his  ear  an  obvious  grand- 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  149 

daughter  came  forth  from  the  lodge  to  whisper, 
with  the  best  results. 

*'Is  M.  le  Marquis  away — at  the  war,  per- 
haps?" asked  the  Ancient  of  the  little  girl. 

(He  felt  convinced  that  M.  le  Marquis  was  as 
far  away  as  the  French  Revolution.) 

''There  is  no  M.  le  Marquis,"  said  the  little 
girl. 

''There  was,"  said  the  grandfather. 

"When?" 

"Oh,  dans  le  temps,  when  there  were  kings." 

"It  is  Monsieur  Chose  now,"  said  the  grand- 
daughter. 

"What  does  he  make  I" 

' '  Bicycle-saddles. ' ' 

"Is  he  here?" 

"Not  yet.  About  seven  o'clock  he  comes. 
Madame  is  here." 

"His  wife?" 

"No.  His  wife's  mother.  Madame  is  dead. 
Monsieur  Pierre  is  at  the  war.  Monsieur  Louis 
is  here — but  he  is  going  soon.  Mademoiselle 
will  opeji  the  door." 

''Voila/^  said  the  grandfather. 

And  the  Ancient  went  on.  At  the  great, 
stern-looking  door,  a  singularly  inhospitable- 
looking  dog  was  in  waiting.  He  resembled  a 
wolf,  and  was  a  wolf 's  grandson.  He  had  a  slink- 


150  FRENCH    WINDOWS 

ing  manner,  and  beautiful  teeth.  His  objection 
to  any  one's  ringing  the  bell  was  undisguised; 
when  the  bell  did  ring  he  wailed  aloud. 

*'I  hope  they'll  be  quick,"  thought  the  An- 
cient. 

They  were  not  at  all  quick,  and  it  wasn't 
*'they"  at  all,  when  it  was  anybody.  It  was 
Mademoiselle.  A  girl  of  fifteen,  neatly  dressed, 
with  a  tucked-up  gown,  and  a  smell  of  soft-soap 
hovering  round  her. 

*'I  have  billets,  please.  Mademoiselle,  from 
the  Mayor,  for  four  officers.  We  shall  not  give 
you  any  trouble,  for  we  have  each  a  servant, 
and  we  bring  our  own  food  and  our  bedding." 

*'I  will  ask  Madame." 

And  she  shut  the  door,  and  the  dog  looked 
gratified,  evidently  saying,  ''Ah!  I  told  you  so." 

"But  you're  quite  wrong,  mon  vieux,"  said 
the  Ancient,  and  the  dog  wailed  aloud. 

In  no  hurry  appeared  Madame — stoutish,  not 
unprosperous,  but  scarcely  arrived  (on  the  road 
to  gentility)  at  the  dignity  of  being  bourgeoise. 
Neither  she  nor  Mademoiselle  were  surly,  but 
they  were  far  from  affecting  geniality.  How- 
ever, the  result  was  admission.  A  queerly  tall, 
but  most  dignified  hall ;  then  a  sombre  and  gaunt, 
but  impressive  staircase :  the  whole  inside  of  the 
house  panelled  with  mahogany,  and  the  stairs 


■  FRENCH  WINDOWS  151 

themselves  and  the  balustrades — right  up  to  the 
fourth  floor — of  mahogany,  still  highly  polished 
and  not  in  the  least  damaged,  or  decayed. 

At  each  landing  were  immense  mahogany 
doors,  with  exquisitely  carved  gilt  locks  and 
door-handles:  every  door  inexorably  closed,  but 
each  obviously  leading  to  suites  of  vast  rooms. 

At  the  fourth  floor  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
paused. 

''Wherever  Monsieur  chooses,  here,"  said 
Madame. 

Even  up  here  the  rooms  were  fine,  and  they 
were  furnished — with  excellent  furniture  of  a 
good  period  (Louis  XVI.) ;  and  the  wall-papers 
were  of  delightful  design  and  still  fresh — after 
over  a  hundred  years:  some  of  the  rooms  were 
not  papered,  but  hung  with  damask  silk. 

''You  see,"  said  Madame,  "there  are  beds 
enough. ' ' 

Perhaps  the  Ancient's  consuming  wonder  as 
to  whose  all  this  had  been  showed  itself  in  his 
face,  as  he  looked  around. 

"It  is  all  my  son-in-law's  now,"  said  Ma- 
dame, and  the  Ancient  asked  no  questions. 

There  was  nowhere  the  smallest  hint  of  occu- 
pation. There  were  excellent  beds,  in  really  fine 
bedsteads,  but  no  bedding.  And  one  felt  a  con- 
viction that  no  one  ever  entered  here,  at  night, 


152  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

except  ghosts.  As  for  the  ghosts  they  hardly 
pretended  to  hide  themselves.  Out  of  every  mir- 
ror they  seemed  to  peer — whereas  the  living  look 
into  mirrors. 

In  this  sumptuous  wilderness  we  encamped 
that  night.  But  first  the  Ancient  had  to  go  and 
find  the  other  officers;  and  also  the  Cure,  to  ar- 
range about  Mass  in  the  morning. 

The  Cure  was  an  old  man,  and  very  pleasant, 
and  quite  delighted  at  the  idea  of  having  eighty 
English  soldiers  in  his  church  next  morning.  It 
was  a  fine  church,  and  well  kept ;  very  large  and 
crowded  next  morning  with  a  devout  congrega 
tion.  During  the  Mass,  said  by  the  Ancient,  the 
Cure  mounted  the  pulpit  and  said  all  sorts  of 
things  out  of  his  own  head  about  the  Ancient 
(for  he  knew  nothing  on  earth  about  him)  to  his 
people,  who  evidently  liked  it.  At  that  Mass  the 
whole  family  from  the  chateau  "assisted." 

Afterwards  the  Ancient  asked  M.  le  Cure 
about  them,  but  he  had  nothing  to  say  out  of  his 
own  head. 

*'0h!  Monsieur  Chose — he  makes  bicycle- 
saddles.    A  respectable  person." 

"  But  the  chateau — it  cannot  always  have  be- 
longed to  him." 

*'Butno.    Only  since  two  years. " 

*'And  before  the  Revolution?" 


FRENCH  WINDOWS  153 

"Ah:  before  the  Revolution  it  belonged  to 
M.  le  Marquis  de  la  R." 

And  that  was  all  that  the  Ancient  ever  could 
discover  about  a  place  that  had  "history" 
peering  out  of  every  corner  of  it.  He  couldn't 
even  discover  why  M.  Chose  had  cared  to  buy 
it,  since  he  certainly  could  not  be  said  to  live 
in  it — he  actually  did  live  in  the  kitchen. 

To  make  public  confession — I  have  always  giv- 
en way  to  rash  judgment  about  M.  Chose.  His 
name  was,  of  course,  not  Chose :  it  was  a  foreign 
name,  and  he  was  not  like  a  Frenchman,  nor  was 
his  son;  nor  were  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
like  French  women.  I  feel  sure  they  were  not. 
That  is  not  the  rash  judgment.  But  one  found 
German-paid  folk  in  so  many  places  far  from 
Germany,  and  there  seemed  so  little  reason  for 
finding  M.  Chose  there — that  one  wondered.  No 
one  in  the  village  would  talk  freely  about  them. 

M.  Chose  and  M.  le  Maire — were  they  pen- 
sioners? Pensioners  of  that  enemy  who  had 
planted  his  pensioners  everywhere  before  the 
war? 


X 

OBITER  DICTA 

Half  an  hour  after  Mass  on  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing, which  was  All  Saints'  Day,  we  marched 
away  from  M.  At  the  end  of  a  straight  bit  of 
road  with  a  hump  in  it  we  could  see  the  spire  of 
H. ;  the  town  we  could  not  see,  because  of  the 
hump.  We  marched  straight  through,  and  soon 
after  eleven  o'clock  had  rejoined  the  headquar- 
ters of  our  unit  at  the  village  of  P.  They  were 
billeted  in  and  about  a  small  but  agreeable 
chateau  in  a  wee  pare — which  is  not  always  in 
France  precisely  the  same  thing  as  an  English 
park.  In  this  instance  it  consisted  of  a  small 
grass-plot,  two  cucumber-frames  and  a  green- 
house, nineteen  trees,  and  half  an  acre  of  kitchen 
garden. 

After  a  fortnight's  absence  it  was  pleasant  to 
meet  our  comrades  again,  and  hear  their  news. 
They  were  not  able  definitely  to  announce  the 
conclusion  of  the  war,  but  in  those  early  days 
most  of  us  were  inclined  to  the  belief  with  which 

154 


OBITER    DICTA  155 

Mr.  Herbert  Paul  credits  the  late  Charles  Kings- 
ley,  ''that  something  tremendous  was  going  to 
happen  about  the  middle  of  next  week." 

Always  eager,  like  Mrs.  Elton,  to  ex- 
plore (though  without  the  convenience  of  a 
barouchelandeau),  the  Ancient  sallied  forth  to 
examine  the  village.  It  was  a  morning  all  unlike 
November;  a  July  sun  and  an  August  breeze 
played  at  summer  together,  like  two  belated 
truants;   and  everything  seemed  laughing. 

The  village  was  full  of  folk,  and  there  were 
many  chattering  groups  about  the  church. 

''Madame,  can  you  tell  me,  please,"  asked  the 
Ancient  of  a  young  mother  with  a  little  boy 
clinging  to  her  gown,  and  a  baby  in  her  arms, 
"where  M.  le  Cure  lives?" 

"Monsieur,  he  lives  nowhere." 

"Ah!  he,  too,  no  doubt,  is  gone  to  the  war?" 

"  He  is  gone.  Monsieur,  beyond  the  war, 
where  for  him  there  is  Peace." 

She  spoke  in  low  tones  and  her  eyes  glanced 
towards  a  lady,  swathed  in  new  black,  who 
passed  from  the  churchyard.  The  groups  of  vil- 
lage-folk and  young  soldiers  drew  back  as  she 
went  by,  and  they  ceased  chattering,  with  grave 
and  reverent  faces,  as  men  do  when  the  great 
King  Death  passes.  Many  uncovered,  not  in 
greeting,  but  for  reverence. 


156  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

*' Monsieur,"  said  the  young  mother,  when 
that  desolate  and  sable  figure  had  gone  by  down 
the  sunlit  street,  ''she  was  his  sister.  She  lived 
with  him.  Two  weeks  ago  the  Boches  were  here. 
Their  officer  went  to  M.  le  Cure — ^lie  was  too  old 
for  military  service,  and  stayed  here.  They 
asked  him  for  the  keys  of  the  church-tower,  and 
he  explained  to  them  that  since  the  separation 
of  Church  and  State  the  churches  belong  to  the 
Republic,  and  the  church-keys  are  in  the  Maire  's 
hands.  Where  there  is  a  friendly  Maire  the 
Cure  is  allowed  to  have  a  key  of  the  church — 
but  it  is  a  courtesy.  M.  le  Cure  told  them  that 
he  had  not  the  tower-key,  that  it  was  at  the 
Maire.  Then  they  ordered  him  to  stand  up,  and 
shot  him.     That  is  all. ' ' 

Immediately  after  an  early  luncheon  we  all 
marched  on,  and  did  not  reach  our  quarters  for 
that  night  till  after  nine  o'clock.  Not  that  it 
was  all  continuous  marching,  for  there  were  long 
blocks  and  waits.  Our  road  lay,  in  the  early 
afternoon,  through  deep  and  narrow  lanes,  and 
more  than  once  we  had  to  squeeze  in  close  to  the 
hedge  and  wait  while  other  troops  went  by. 
Among  these  was  a  brigade  of  Moroccan  Cav- 
alry, coming  the  contrary  way,  so  that  their 
faces  were  towards  us  as  they  came  winding  up 
the  hill  in  the  bright  sunshine,  and  we  could  get 


OBITER  DICTA  157 

c*  good  look  at  them.  They  were  not,  it  will  be 
understood,  French  colonials,  bnt  irregular  na- 
tive horse,  mostly  Arabs,  though  mth  a  notable 
sprinkling  of  jet-black  Nubians.  Their  costumes 
were  furiously  picturesque — close-fitting  jackets 
and  very  loose  trousers  of  pale  but  bright  blue, 
broad  canary-coloured  sashes,  blood-red  fez,  and 
high  boots  of  buff  leather.  The  younger  men 
were  often  handsome,  after  an  insolent,  barbaric 
fashion;  the  elders  were  mostly  ill-favoured 
enough  and  of  forbidding  countenance,  with 
hard  and  angry  eyes.  Even  those  who  were 
young  and  comely  had  an  overbearing,  defiant 
manner — ''cheeky,"  as  I  heard  one  of  our  men 
remark.  All  looked  fierce  and  truculent.  One 
Avould  guess  that  where  sheer  defiant  pluck 
might  be  needed  they  would  not  fall  short,  but 
that  their  discipline  and  subordination  might 
leave  something  to  be  desired. 

"And  what,"  asked  one  of  our  young  officers 
(an  Irishman  from  the  Black  North)  of  the  An- 
cient ''do  you  think  of  them?" 

"  I  think  they  make  a  splendid  picture,  but 
they  look  particularly  unbaptized." 

"Do  /  look  unbaptized?" 

"Oh,  youf  "Well  mon  vieux,  you  look  as  if 
conditional  baptism  might  in  your  case  be  a  safe 
precaution. ' ' 


158  FEENCH   WINDOWS 

The  Moroccans  would  have  liked  to  gallop 
through,  but  the  lane  was  too  narrow  and  too 
thickly  packed  for  that.  Sometimes  they  could 
trot  half  a  dozen  yards,  then  had  to  halt,  then 
might  move  on  at  foot-pace,  then  trot  again,  and 
so  on. 

*'Etes  vous,"  demanded  one  of  the  cavaliers, 
who  sat  impatiently  enough  in  his  high  saddle 
waiting  for  the  block  in  front  to  lessen.  **Etes 
vous  Sheikh  f' 

*'  Oui,  mon  fils,"  answered  the  Ancient,  **  je 
suis  Sheikh  Catholique." 

The  lad  seemed  to  think  it  rather  funny.  He 
touched  his  own  hair,  and  nodded  towards  the 
Ancient's  w'hite  locks,  approvingly,  but  touched 
his  own  moustache,  and  looked  at  the  Ancient's 
ehaven  lip  not  approvingly.  To  the  Arab  the 
shaven  lip  is  shocking,  scandalous.  To  this  one 
it  seemed  perversely  improper,  since  all  the 
young  English  soldiers  who  were  not  Sheikhs 
were  moustached. 

"Notre  habitude,"  observed  the  Ancient, 
**Maleysh-Kulloolum  beni  Adam." 

The  youth  showed  two  rows  of  perfect  teeth, 
and  said: 

*'  Salaam!" 

The  Ancient,  looking  forward,  saw  there 
would  be  another  move. 


OBITER  DICTA  159 

**  Hadr!"  he  told  his  cavalier. 

And  the  lad  laughed  as  he  shook  up  his  rein 
and  moved  on.  He  told  the  little  joke  to  his 
comrades,  and  as  they  trotted  forward  they  also 
laughed,  turned  in  their  saddles,  shook  brown 
hands  in  air  in  greeting,  and  told  one  another 
how  odd  it  was  to  see  an  old  Sheikh  of  the 
Catholics,  standing  thus  dusty  in  the  trampling 
rush  of  the  war's  wayside;  but  I  think  they 
rather  liked  it,  and  no  true  Arab  despises  a 
priest.  Was  not  Isa  bin  Miriam  highest  of  all 
saints? 

The  Ancient,  watching  them  disappear, 
seemed  to  miss  them,  and  bethought  him  of  a 
morning  in  Tripoli,  when  an  Arab  had  bela- 
boured a  harmless  old  person  squatted  on  the 
steps  of  the  church  where  the  Ancient  was  about 
to  say  Mass. 

''Let  him  be.  He  does  no  evil,"  the  Ancient 
expostulated. 

''He  makes  interruption.  He  gets  in  the  way 
when  the  holy  man  comes  to  make  his  prayer. 
The  great  prayer  is  not  to  be  impeded  by  the 
body  of  this  one  who  seeks  only  half -pence." 

What  seemed  queer  was  that  the  old  fellow  did 
not  take  at  all  in  ill-part  his  own  drastic  re- 
moval. 

"You    would    not,"    demanded    the    lad    of 


160  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

him,  *'  cheat  God  of  the  prayers  that  are 
His?'» 

"  No,  no."  And  he  lifted  wrinkled  hands  of 
disavowal.     *'  To  God  prayer.     To  man  pity." 

Well,  we  got  on  at  last.  Then,  after  but  a 
short  mile  of  marching,  another  block:  and  this 
time  the  Ancient  climbed  np  into  a  queer  little 
country  cart,  driven  by  one  of  our  men,  to  rest 
iand  wait.  The  man  was  from  the  Scots  Low- 
lands, and  had  the  kindly  burr  of  the  north  in 
his  mouth.  He  soon  told  all  about  himself. 
*'  Presbyterian r'  ''  Yes."  ''  Of  the  Kirk  of 
Scotland,  or  the  Free  Kirk,  U.P.'s,  or  what?" 
''  Rightly  I'm  a  wee  Free.  But  in  the  Army  I'm 
just  Presbyterian."  He  had  four  brothers,  two 
out  here,  one  of  them  killed;  one  in  the  Navy, 
and  one,  the  youngest,  only  sixteen,  *' minding 
the  mither"  at  home.  Benjy  they  called  him, 
though  his  right  name  was  Alexander,  because 
he  got  ''aye  the  biggest  servings  at  dinner."  It 
was  a  mercy  it  was  not  him  the  Germans  had 
killed.  The  brother  who  had  fallen  had  an  Eng- 
lish chum  who  ''  broke"  his  death  in  a  letter 
to  Benjy.  ''  You  may  conclude,"  said  he,  "that 
James  is  dead,  for  I  saw  his  head  blown  off." 
"  That,"  observed  my  one  of  the  five  brothers, 
*'  is  what  you  may  ca'  leading  up  to  it."  It 
appeared  that  my  one  (whose  name  was  Adam) 


OBITER  DICTA  161 

had  been  to  a  Catholic  service  once,  led  thither 
by  a  chum  who  assured  him  that  it  would  divert 
him.  "But  it  was  na'  that  way  at  all,"  he  de- 
clared, ' '  1  thought  it  pretty,  and  verra  solemn. 
The  minister  that  preached  gave  me  a  knock  or 
two,  though  he  didna  ken  I  was  there."  "  Per- 
haps the  knocks  came  from  somewhere  else 
where  they  do  know."  ''And  that  was  what  I 
was  jalousin'  my  ain  seP.  So  I  pirtly  decided 
not  to  go  again  just  then,  as  it  was  not  entirely 
convenient  to  me  to  change.  There's  nae  use 
exposin'  the  conscience  till  ye've  a  readiness  to 
let  it  have  its  ain  wull  o '  ye. ' ' 

But  if  the  reader  is  to  be  made  to  play  eaves- 
dropper to  all  the  talk  that  came  in  the  Ancient 's 
way,  we  shall  not  get  on  much. 

After  all  it  was  November,  and,  brilliant  as 
the  day  had  been,  it  had  to  obey  the  almanack 
and  close  in  betimes.  There  was  a  long  twilight, 
warm  enough  at  first,  but  gathering  a  sharp  chill 
as  the  mists  began  to  rise  over  the  fields.  Here- 
abouts there  were,  now  and  then,  clusters  of 
huge  and  tall  poles  for  the  drying  of  hops;  as 
the  white  fog  crept  in  and  swathed  about  them, 
and  the  night  fell,  they  had  a  grizzly  suggestion 
of  colonies  of  gibbets,  especially  as  blackened 
bunches  of  withered  hops  hung  to  many  of  them, 
swaying  in  the  breeze.    That  which  at  noon  had 


162  FRENCH   WINDOWS 

been  a  panting  zephyr  came  now  scolding,  fussy 
puffs  with  a  tooth  in  them. 

It  grew  so  chilly  that  the  Ancient  was  not 
sorry  to  get  down  and  walk  again  when  the 
' '  Quick  March  ' '  came.  He  fell  behind  a  bit  to 
say  a  rosary,  but  men  kept  moving  by,  and  he 
thought  (if  he  thought  at  all)  they  were  his  own: 
men  still.  At  last  he  found  that  they  were  not : 
but  it  didn  't  seem  to  matter,  every  one  was  going 
the  same  way. 

There  really  was,  somehow,  a  Sunday-evening 
feeling  in  the  air.  At  home  the  people  would 
be  in  church.  Even  here  the  war  seemed  for 
the  moment  only  a  bizarre  fringe  on  the  edge  of 
man's  common,  homely  wear  of  peace.  Even 
here  the  marching  troops  were  a  very  narrow 
foreground;  behind,  nestling  to  the  mothering 
earth's  kindly  breast,  lay  the  villages 
'  It  was  across  a  wide  flat  we  moved  now;  no 
longer  through  lanes  but  along  an  unfenjed 
road;  the  mist  was  not  everywhere,  but  only 
where,  perhaps,  the  ground  was  more  moist. 
When  there  was  mist  it  lay  low,  like  white  pools ; 
above  it  was  the  clear  blackness  of  the  deepen- 
ing night. 

The  men  all  went  quicker  than  the  Ancient, 
who  was  in  truth  sauntering,  enjoying  the 
seclusion  that  seemed  only  insisted  upon  by  the 


OBITER  DICTA  163 

passing  of  so  many  strangers.  As  they  went  by 
they  were  chattering,  not  loudly,  each  to  his 
neighbour.  It  all  seemed  wonderfully  friendly 
and  i^eaceful:  and  beyond  the  thin  line  of 
tramping  feet,  and  beating  hearts,  lay  the  dead 
silence  of  those  vacant  fields. 

But  at  last  the  troops  had  all  gone  by,  and  the 
Ancient  realized  that  he  was  alone,  and  had  no 
business  to  be.  So  he  moved  on  more  quickly, 
not  sorry  to  have  a  whole  road  to  himself,  and 
no  dust. 

Presently  a  mounted  orderly  rode  by;  but, 
before  he  passed,  he  stopped  to  ask  if  B.  was 
over  yonder. 

''  I  don't  know  a  bit.  I  never  know  what 
place  is  ahead  till  I  get  there. '^ 

''And  you  never  get  lost,  sirl'^ 

**  Not  out  and  out.  I'm  lost  now  in  one  sense. 
That  is  to  say,  my  lot  are  somewhere  in  front, 
and  I  don't  exactly  know  where.  But  I  shall 
soon  overtake  them." 

''Well;  good-night,  sir." 

And  he  trotted  on  into  a  pool  of  mist  that 
came  up  as  high  as  his  knees;  his  body  was  up 
in  the  clear  air.  He  looked  like  a  man  drowning 
in  milk. 

Quarter  of  an  hour  later  two  soldiers  on  horse- 
back came  in  the  opposite  direction. 


164  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

"  Have  you  met  a  Field  Ambulance  ?" 

*'  Yes,  sir.    Two." 

' '  You  didn  't  know  their  numbers  1 ' ' 

'*  One  was  the  14th." 

(The  Ancient  wanted  the  15th.) 

''  Straight  ahead?" 

**  Yes,  sir.     Good-night." 

Ten  minutes  later  there  were  cross-roads,  and 
at  them,  under  some  trees,  was  a  little  wine- 
shop. Outside  were  half  a  dozen  soldiers.  They 
declared  that  the  Field  Ambulance  had  gone 
down  the  road  to  the  left.  It  seemed  rather 
rude,  after  asking,  and  getting  that  reply,  to 
kept  on  straight  ahead.  But  the  Ancient  had 
a  conviction  that  it  was  straight  ahead  that  his 
own  Field  Ambulance  had  gone.  So  he  loitered 
and  lit  a  cigarette,  and  presently  the  men  wont 
indoors  *'  to  see  what  time  it  was."  Then  he 
walked  on.  Soon  there  was  another  clump  of 
trees ;  and  a  sort  of  cabaret,  that  was  half  palm, 
under  them.  In  the  inky  shadow  a  group  of 
cavalry  were  sitting,  with  a  stealthy  effect, 
silent  on  their  horses.  One  of  the  men  came 
out  on  the  road  and  said: 

*'  We  think  we're  lost " 

"  I  have  been  wondering  if  I  was " 

"Oh!    you  don't  belong  here!" 

** Anything  but;  I  belong  to  Salisbury  Plain." 


OBITER  DICTA  165 

"  Lor'!    That's  a  good  step,  ain't  it,  sir?" 

And  he  and  the  Ancient  laughed  very  cheer- 
fully together. 

"I  was  on  Salisbury  Plain  once,"  said  the 
trooper,  "  at  Tidworth." 

"  I  hope  you  liked  it?" 

''  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  mind  it  now.  I 
thought   it   was   the   North   Pole   then." 

Twenty  minutes  after  that  the  Ancient  did 
overtake  a  Field  Ambulance,  but  not  the  right 
one.  However,  they  said  that  the  right  one  was 
in  front — a  good  bit  in  front.  It  was  in  the 
market-square  of  B.*  that  he  overtook  it.  The 
square  was  full  of  troops,  and  the  big  place 
looked  picturesque  enough;  a  large  church  with 
a  massive  tower  stood  at  one  side,  and  there 
was  a  fine  Town-House,  half  Gothic,  half 
Renaissance.    But  we  were  not  to  stop  in  B. 

< '  ^e  're  to  go  on  to  the  Lunatic  Asylum, ' '  one 
of  the  men  explained.  ^'  P'raps  Kayzer's  there 
— right  place  for  him,  too." 

The  Maison  des  Alienes  was  only  just  beyond 
the  town,  in  a  really  pretty  park  with  splendid 
wrought-iron  gates.  The  building  itself  was  im- 
mense, and  of  fine  design,  like  a  royal  chateau. 
And  there  was  a  large  block  apart,  for  the  Pres- 
ident and  staff — ^itself  like  another  chateau. 

*Not  the  B,  already  mentioned. 


166  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Our  men,  however,  were  billeted  in  the  home- 
farm  and  our  officers  in  an  out-building  where 
I  think  faggots  were  made.  Before  long  the 
President  appeared,  and  insisted  on  removing 
the  Ancient,  somewhat  scandalized,  apparently, 
at  the  notion  of  a  prelate's  sleeping  on  a  bundle 
of  straw  (which  makes  an  excellent  bed).  For 
six  nights  the  Ancient  therefore  occupied  a  huge 
bedroom  in  the  administrative  block,  with  grand 
furniture,  electric  light,  and  all  the  other  ameni- 
ties of  a  civilization  that  had  seemed  quite  for- 
gotten. The  President,  Madame,  and  their 
three  children  all  gave  their  guest  the  kindest 
welcome:  and  the  Aumonier  of  the  Asylum  in- 
sisted on  serving  his  Mass  every  day.  There 
was  a  large  and  handsome  chapel,  and  the 
charge  of  the  Alienees  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
nuns.  There  was  a  most  excellent  bath-house, 
and  when  the  Ancient  proceeded  thither,  encum- 
bered with  towels,  sponge  and  soap,  it  was  edify- 
ing but  embarrassing  to  find  the  whole  Commun- 
ity on  their  knees  outside  it,  surrounded  by  such 
of  the  lunatics  as  were  not  agitees. 
'  But  nothing  could  equal  the  fraternal  welcome 
of  the  Aumonier,  who  had  his  own  little  house 
in  the  pare.  He  displayed  the  Ancient  (who 
never  was  exactly  spectacular)  to  his  bonne, 
with  amazingly  daring  inaccuracy  of  description, 


OBITER  DICTA  167 

seeing  that  the  described  was  on  the  spot;  and 
he  had  the  Rector  of  the  Little  Seminary  over 
from  B.  on  purpose  to  feast  his  eyes  on  him. 

*'  Him,"  he  boasted,  ''  did  I  find  writing  let- 
ters on  a  bundle  of  faggots  in  the  wood-house, 
with  a  heap  of  straw  for  fauteuil.  There  is 
nothing  like  the  humility  of  the  English. ' ' 

' '  The  English, ' '  observed  the  Ancient  meekly, 
'*  are  famed  the  world  over  for  their  humility." 

The  Rector  of  the  Little  Seminary  gave  a  puff 
at  his  pipe,  removed  it,  and  said  with  triumph : 
^*  St.  Augustine  laid  it  down  that  the  English 
were  non  Angli  sed  Angeli." 

"  Was  it  not  St.  Gregory? — and  he  had  only 
seen  two  of  us ;  very  young  ones. '  * 

"  He  empties,"  observed  the  Aumonier,  in  an 
awe-struck  aside,  "his  own  waste-paper  basket." 

* '  Tiens ! ' '  cried  the  Rector,  with  another  puff. 

''  Also,"  declared  Marie,  the  old  bonne,  pop- 
ping her  head  round  the  door,  '*  when  the  fire 
went  low,  he  put  on  coals  with  his  fingers,  and 
applied  a  sheet  of  La  Croix  in  front,  to  make  it 
blow  up.  I  saw  through  the  chink,  and  knew  not 
which  indiscretion  should  be  the  worst,  to  suf- 
fer it,  or  to  interfere." 

"  You  should  not  have  suffered  it,"  the  Rector 
decided,  with  an  air  of  one  to  whom  the  decision 
of  theological  questions  was  child's  play. 


168  FEEXCH  WINDOWS 

I  tmst  no  one  thinks  I  am  langMng  at  those 
kindly  creatures.  They  ^ere  so  simple  and  so 
overflowing  with  goodness  and  welcome^  so  eager 
to  make  charitable  mountains  out  of  funny  little 
mole-hills;  their  own  eyes  were  so  fuH  of  good- 
ness and  humility  that  they  saw  it  everywhere; 
one  was  a  Ettle  ashamed,  but  not  in  the  least  dis- 
posed to  laugh  at  them, 

"  Come,''  said  the  Eector,  to  his  friend,  "  you 
should  give  him  wine,  and  cognac,  and  perhaps 
a  Kttle  benedictine.    Eh?" 

"Xot  at  all,"  cried  the  Aumonier,  delighted 
with  his  own  deep  knowledge  of  the  English,  "  it 
is  tea.     Tea  all  day  long." 

Tea  was  made,  and  they  watched  it  poured 
forth  and  swallowed  as  one  might  watch  the 
drinMng  of  a  powerful  and  dubious  drug. 

"  And  really  you  like  it?  To  me  it  is  un- 
palatable," observed  the  Eector. 

It  certainly  was  unpalatable.  One  teaspoon- 
fxil  of  tea  to  three  pints  of  hot  water  makes  a 
queer  drink  enough. 

"  He  takes,"  noted  the  Eector,  summing  up 
and  registering  the  fruits  of  eager  observation, 
"  but  one  cup.  There  is  always  exaggeration  in 
report.  One  small  cup.  It  is  not  the  case  that 
they  drink  it  in  imnaense  quantities." 

When  Marie  had  retreated  with  the  balance 


OBITER  DICTA  169 

of  the  tea,  promising  to  keep  it  tiU  to-morrow 
in  case  Monseignenr  should  be  again  thirsty,  the 
Eector  edged  a  little  nearer. 

**  TTe  are  brothers,"  he  began.  *'  Therefore 
there  can  be  no  indiscretion — does  the  English 
Protestant  Government  pay  the  Catholic  Chap- 
lains?" 

*'  Certainly  it  does." 

The  Eector  coughed.  Though  a  brother,  he 
dreaded  to  oversteiD  the  frontier  of  discre- 
tion. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  how  much?" 

That  was  precisely  what  he  did  want — so  did 
the  Aumonier.  The  Ancient  told  them  how 
much :  and  they  lifted  astonished  hands. 

* '  More  than  a  bishop ! ' '  they  cried  in  unison. 
It  gave  them  as  much  pleasure  as  if  the  money 
had  been  a  legacy  to  themselves.  They  were  so 
carried  away  that  they  successively  embraced 
the  Ancient. 

' '  Well,  well ! ' '  murmured  the  Aumonier. 

*'  Tiens!"  cried  the  Eector,  ^'  what  a  Govern- 
ment ! ' ' 

Oh,  dear !  How  entirely  I  fail  to  get  on.  How- 
ever, I  may  love  to  keep  in  memory  that  little 
parlour,  and  the  kindly  French-Flemish  faces, 
the  echoes  of  those  gentle  and  brotherly  voices, 
it  makes  nothing  iu  the  telling,  and  cau  hardly 


170  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

be  called  a  War  Picture.  But  there  it  was — in 
and  out  of  the  war,  everywhere,  ran  these  inter- 
woven strands  of  peace,  and  love  and  neigh- 
bourly kindness,  so  that  the  memory  of  it  can 
never  be  of  an  arras,  grim  and  frightful,  hid- 
ing all  humanity  and  leaving  only  warriors  stern 
and  angry-eyed ;  not  that  the  warriors  who  came 
my  way  were  angry-eyed  or  stern;  they  also 
were  before  all  things  human,  and  mostly  gentle, 
as  fits  young  and  strong  men  encountering  an 
old  and  weak  man. 

One  afternoon  two  of  our  officers  asked  the 
Ancient  to  go  in  to  B.  with  them  and  show  them 
the  Cathedral — which  was  not  a  Cathedral,  only 
it  was  big  and  ancient,  and  such  churches  are 
apt  to  get  brevet  rank.  The  town  had  a  lively 
air,  being  the  headquarters  not  only  of  one  of 
our  Divisions,  but  of  an  Army  Corps,  and  full  of 
troops  and  movement.  It  was  there  I  first  saw 
specimens  of  the  new  Army,  and  a  very  fine  body 
of  young  men  they  were.  That,  however,  was 
not  on  the  afternoon  I  am  now  speaking  of,  but 
a  month  later  when  we  had  come  back  to  this 
neighbourhood  after  a  few  weeks  beyond  the 
frontier  in  real  Flanders — i.e.,  the  part  of  Flan- 
ders that  forms  part  of  Belgium.  B.  itself  is 
very  Flemish,  as  many  of  the  names  over  the 
shops  showed,  and  also  the  faces  of  the  people. 


OBITER  DICTA  171 

Flemisli  is  really  the  vernacular  of  the  peasant 
class,  and  French,  I  think,  is  only  the  language 
they  learn  in  school. 

The  large  church,  too,  is  Flemish  in  character, 
and  that  note  of  character  is  specially  struck  by 
the  immense,  ornate,  pulpit  of  carved  wood, 
standing  far  down  the  nave  and  arresting  the 
first  attention  of  every  visitor.  Any  one  who 
remembers  the  pulpit  of  Ste.  Gulule  in  Brussels 
will  know  the  sort  of  thing:  a  thing  not  very 
appealing  to  the  individual  taste  of  the  present 
writer,  but  undoubtedly  fine,  and  a  splendid  ef- 
fort of  a  particular  craft. 

At  one  end  of  the  church,  near  the  west  doors, 
was  a  huge  and  realistic  reproduction  of  the 
grotto  at  Lourdes,  a  little  too  huge  and  a  little 
too  realistic,  perhaps,  for  the  taste  of  an  archi- 
tectual  purist.  But  it  arrested  the  attention  of 
my  two  officers,  who  wanted  to  know  all  about 
it.  How  well  the  Ancient  will  always  remember 
that  dun  November  afternoon  in  the  big,  dim 
church.  Kneeling  on  the  steps  in  front  of  the 
grotto,  with  the  two  young  men  at  his  side,  he 
tried  to  tell  them,  at  great  length,  the  story  of 
our  Lady's  apparitions  to  Bernadette  and  all 
that  came  of  them,  from  that  first  apparition 
which  was  taking  place  in  the  far  south,  by  the 
Cave  under  the  Pyrenees,  while  he  himself  was 


172  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

being  born  in  a  fierce  snow-storm  near  the  York- 
shire moors. 

The  young  men  were  not  in  the  least  bored, 
nor  scoffing,  nor  incredulous,  but  listened  as 
though  he  who  told  the  wonderful  story  had  him- 
self seen  what  he  described:  and  afterwards, 
when  it  was  finished,  one  of  them  said : 

''It  is  a  wonderful  Church  yours,  Monsignor, 
and  it  is  no  wonder  she  holds  the  hearts  of  her 
children  in  her  hand." 

And,  as  we  came  out  into  the  early  dusk,  they 
said  very  gracious  things  of  the  privilege  it  w^.s 
to  visit  such  a  place  with  one  who  could  tell  them 
all  its  significance.* 

''  For  my  part,"  M.  declared, ''  1  shall  always 
remember  this  afternoon,  and  how  I  heard  from 
you  the  story  of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes." 

**  And  shall  I  forget  your  patience?" 

♦  R.  I.  P. 


XI 

WEST    FLAISTDEES 

At  noon  on  Friday  we  left  B,,  and  we  had  only 
arrived  there  late  on  Sunday  night:  yet  it 
seemed  as  though  one  had  known  it,  M.  I'Au- 
monier,  old  Marie,  and  the  Rector  of  the  Semi- 
nary half  one's  life. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  Ancient  had  knocked 
at  the  Aumonier's  front  door,  which  *'  gave" 
upon  the  tall  iron  railings  fencing  in  the  pare 
from  the  high  road  to  C,  and  when  Marie  opened 
it  there  was  M.  1  'Aumonier  in  the  little  hall, 

'  *  Ah,  ha ! "  he  called  out,  '  ^  I  knew  it  was  you. 
I  knew  your  way  of  knocking — Vous  avez  la 
mmiiere  nerveuse." 

"  We  are  off,"  said  the  Ancient,  '^  in  an  hour 
or  less." 

"  Going  away!  Where  to?  To  the  war?" 
And  the  kind  creature's  pale  grey  eyes  grew 
moist  at  once. 

He  found  the  occasion  so  solemn  that  he 
173 


174  FRENCH  WINDOWS  ' 

opened  the  door  of  the  best  parlour,  and  drew 
the  Ancient  in  there — but  he  did  not  shut  the 
door,  for  he  knew  that  Marie  would  wait  outside 
and  want  to  listen.  For  weeks,  even  months, 
together  no  one  ever  entered  that  best  parlour, 
which  only  existed  for  the  sake  of  the  best  furni- 
ture, the  chairs  on  which  no  one  ever  sat,  the 
table  at  which  no  one  ever  wrote  or  worked. 
There  hung  the  Bishop's  portrait,  with  sky-blue 
jQesh-shadows,  and  a  chrome-yellow  pectoral 
cross,  with  the  illuminated  address  for  pendant 
presented  to  the  Aumonier  on  the  occasion  of  his 
silver  jubilee.  At  the  top  of  the  address  peered 
a  rather  Masonic-looking  eye  out  of  a  triangle 
surrounded  by  golden  rays,  and  under  it  a  lamb 
lay  fast  asleep  on  a  book  with  markers  like  five- 
franc  pieces. 

''  Going!"  cried  the  little  Aumonier,  and  he 
sniffed  undisguisedly.  But  he  took  snuff  to  af- 
ford a  pretext  for  the  moisture  in  his  eyes,  and 
blew  his  nose  like  a  fog-horn.  Half  a  century 
before,  when  the  Ancient  Avas  a  little  boy,  he 
had  regarded  the  power  of  blowing  one's  nose 
with  that  noise  as  a  supreme  sign  of  adult 
manhood,  and  had  envied  it. 
Marie  out  in  the  hall  sniffed  louder.- 
"Come  in  then,"  her  master  called  out,  *'  and 
Monseigneur  will  bless  us." 


WEST  FLANDERS  175 

In  she  came,  and  the  two  of  them  knelt  down, 
looking  like  two  elderly  babies. 

"  Now  get  up,"  said  the  Ancient  peremptorily 
to  the  Aumonier,  '^  and  bless  me." 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,"  protested  the  Aumonier 
shyly. 

*'  Oh,  yes,  you  could.     Just  try." 

And  Marie  was  clearly  of  opinion  that  he 
ought  to  try. 

^'  It's  very  greedy,"  said  the  Ancient,  *'  to 
take  all  the  blessing  and  give  none." 

The  little  Aumonier  gave  a  little  sob,  and 
shook  his  head,  and  blest;  and  old  Marie  took 
her  apron  out  of  one  eye  to  watch. 

''M.  1 'Aumonier  and  I,"  she  said,  when  the 
blessing  was  done,  ''  will  always  be  talking  of 
you." 

"  Oh,  yes!"  cried  he.  **But  when  it  is  a  cold 
night,  and  the  fog  is  wet,  and  I  lie  in  my  good 
bed,  warm,  warm,  then  shall  I  be  unhappy  think- 
ing of  you — you,  Monseigneur,  lying  in  a  grenier 
on  sticks,  or  straw.  For  my  part  I  do  not  see 
that  war  is  for  old  persons." 

"  Eh,  mon  clier,  isn't  it  worse  for  the  young, 
for  those  young  who  never  come  home  from  it? 
When  the  bit  of  road  left  has  to  be  short  it 
doesn't  seem  to  matter  so  much  through  what 
rough  places  it  may  take  us.    But  now  I  must 


176  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

go.  And  you,  my  dear  friends,  dig  a  little  hole 
in  your  hearts  and  bury  me  in  it,  and  lay  fresh 
prayers  on  it  often.    Will  you?" 

* '  Daily,  daily, ' '  promised  the  little  Aumonier. 
Then  he  fell  on  his  new  old  friend's  neck,  and 
folded  him  in  an  ample  embrace. 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  we  marched  past,  out- 
side the  railings,  there  on  the  doorstep  stood  M. 
PAumonier,  waving  his  snuff-box,  and  smiling 
dolorously ;  and  behind  him  in  the  open  door  was 
old  Marie  with  her  apron  still  at  one  eye,  half- 
mast  as  it  were.  It  seemed  hard  to  the  Ancient 
to  believe  that  a  week  before  he  had  never  heard 
of  the  existence  of  either  of  them. 

As  the  crow  flies  it  is  scarcely  two  miles  from 
B.  to  the  Belgian  frontier,  and  as  the  crow  flies 
it  is  not  ten  to  V.,  where  we  slept  that  night: 
but  I  think,  as  we  went,  it  was  nearly  a  twenty- 
mile  march. 

In  the  afternoon  we  passed  by  R.,  and  just 
afterwards  met  a  French  brigade  marching  into 
quarters  there.  Watching  them  go  by  the 
Ancient  stood  on  the  roadside  armed  w^ith  a  fat 
bag  full  of  medals,  and  the  bag  sprung  a  leak,  so 
that  a  medal  or  two  oozed  out  and  lay  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet  without  his  knowing  it.  A 
very  tired-looking,  quite  old,  French  soldier  came 
loping  by,  hung  about  with  innumerable  little 


WEST  FLANDERS  177 

bags  and  straps  and  trappings.  A  real  poilii, 
shaggy,  hairy,  with  ashen  skin,  and  black  lean 
hands.  Eather  a  crafty  old  eye,  and  a  twisted 
old  mouth  with  one  rather  crafty-looking  old 
tooth  in  it. 

''  Barlasch  of  the  Guard!"  thought  the  An- 
cient. 

Then  the  old  poilu  stopped,  and  swooped,  and 
came  up  w^ith  the  medals. 

*'  A  vous?"  he  asked,  in  a  husky  voice,  his 
eyes  blinking. 

*'A  vous,  mon  brave,  si  vous  en  voulez." 

* '  Alors ! ' '  And  he  hauled  up  one  of  his  many 
bags  and  stowed  away  the  medals. 

''I  also  was  a  child  once,"  he  said  explana- 
torily. 

*'  I  am  not  precisely  a  child,"  laughed  the 
Ancient. 

Barlasch  shook  his  head  sharply  from  right  to 
left,  which  meant  "  So  one  sees." 

*'  Look,"  said  the  Ancient,  '^  take  this  also." 
And  he  gave  him  a  small  crucifix. 

^'Eh!  Un  petit  Christ.  Joli  Qa.  Hein?  Je 
la  garderai."  And  he  polished  the  cross  upon 
his  grimy  sleeve. 

"  I  had  another  once,"  he  said,  in  his  husky 
voice.  ''  When  I  was  a  little  one.  But  I  lost 
Him." 


178  FRENCH   WINDOWS 

**Votre  petit  Christ  r' 

Barlasch  nodded. 

**  Well,  you've  found  Him  again.  He  was 
little  once;  before  tliey  killed  Him." 

' '  Tiens ! ' '  cried  Barlasch,  and  he  held  out  one 
of  his  knotty,  black  hands  and  shook  the  An- 
cient's.    "  A  tantot,"  he  said,  moving  on. 

How  tired  he  looked;  almost  stumbling,  as  he 
slouched  along!  He  had  come  a  long  way  since 
he  also  was  un  petit :  perhaps  too  far. 

"  A  little  child  shall  lead  us,"  thought  the 
Ancient,  and  he  asked  the  Child  to  go  to  the  old 
weary  soldier's  help. 

But  hundreds,  it  seemed  like  thousands,  of 
other  soldiers  were  streaming  by :  some  really 
marching,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  though 
easily,  and  without  our  stiffness  and  ''  correc- 
tion:" others  walking,  how  and  where  they  chose, 
along  the  edges  of  the  broad  unfenced  road. 

One  of  these  had  watched  the  little  episode 
between  the  old  poilu  and  the  old  priest,  and  he 
had  sat  down  as  though  to  rest.  When  Barlasch 
had  slouched  on  he  got  up  and  came  back  a 
little  way. 

"  Is  there,"  he  asked  the  Ancient,  '^un  petit 
Christ  for  me  also?" 

He  was  a  lad,  of  perhaps  one  and  twenty,  with 
laughing  eyes,  and  a  wayward,  kindly  mouth. 


WEST  FLANDERS  179 

It  was  a  vagrant  thought  enough  that  made 
the  Ancient,  comparing  him  and  Barlasch  re- 
member how  it  was  said  to  Peter,  "  When  thou 
wast  young  thou  didst  gird  thine  own  self  and 
whither  thou  wouldest  thither  walkedst  thou. 
But  when  thou  shalt  be  old,  thou  shalt  stretch 
forth  thine  hands,  and  others  shall  gird  thee, 
and  carry  thee  whither  thou  wouldest  not." 

The  two  soldiers  seemed  to  divide  that  youth 
and  age  between  them.  The  lad  was  still  in  the 
stage  of  going  whither  he  would;  the  old  man 
had  gone  there,  and  now,  dog-weary  of  it  all, 
others  were  carrying  him  whither  he  would  not. 

He  shambled  slowly  enough,  and  was  not  yet 
j&fty  yards  away.  To  ease  the  burdens  he  car- 
ried he  was  lifting  his  arms  on  either  side  of 
him,  giving  a  sort  of  hoist  with  them.  It  was 
not  very  fanciful  to  think  that  the  old  man 
looked  like  one  moving  on  strapped  to  a  weary 
cross.  So  do  many  of  us  struggle  on — fastened 
to  the  cross  we  have  made  for  ourselves — 
whither  we  would  not.    Let  the  Child  save  them. 

'*  Un  petit  Christ  pour  moi  aussi,  Monsieur  I" 
urged  the  lad  with  the  wilful  eyes. 

He  took  the  little  gift  graciously,  with  smiling 
deference.  Surely  Someone  Else  was  looking 
lOn  the  young  man  and  loving  him. 

**  You  will  keep  it?"  said  the  Ancient. 


180  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

*'  Pres  de  mon  coeur!" 

*'  Dans  votre  coeur  plutot,  mon  petit." 

The  kind,  happy  eyes  understood  and  the  lad 
promised. 

**  Oui,  Monsieur,  dans  le  coeur — Je  garderai 
cette  croix." 

But  there  were  now  ever  so  many  more,  de- 
manding, with  outstretched  hands,  crosses  or 
medals. 

There  were  many  hundreds  in  the  bag,  and  the 
bag  was  empty  before  the  men  had  all  gone  by. 

''  Je  n'en  ai  pas  h  donner  a  toute  I'Armee 
Frangaise!"  the  Ancient  had  protested  laugh- 
ingly, as  the  bag  became  light,  to  one  of  them. 

"  Je  ne  suis  pas  I'Armee  FranQaise,"  retort- 
ed the  owner  of  the  outstretched  hand.  ' '  Je  ne 
suis  qu'un  petit  soldat,  moi." 

Many  said  a  pretty  word  or  two.  Some  were 
very  tired,  and  said  nothng  but  a  thank  you. 
One  said  '  *  A  la  bonne  Entente ! "  as  though  the 
giving  and  the  taking  of  the  little  medal  were  a 
sort  of  wayside  sacramental  of  friendliness 
between  a  son  of  the  Church's  eldest  daughter 
and  a  liegeman  of  Our  Lady's  Dowry. 

They  were  mostly  medals  of  God's  Great 
Mother,  and  the  Ancient  could  but  trust  that 
they  who  claimed  them  might  be  reminded  of 
her  sky-clean  mantle  and  be  drawn  under  its 


WEST  FLANDERS  181 

protection.  The  least  effect  must  be  to  each  of 
these  soldiers,  caught  up  in  the  great  tangle  of 
the  great  war,  that  he  should  remember  the  more 
clearly  the  double  Motherhood  stooping  over 
him,  Hers  in  Heaven  who  is  its  Queen,  and  hers 
on  earth  whom  the  Virgin  Christ  calls  His  bride 
and  spouse. 

Well,  we  had  the  road  clear  at  last,  and  moved 
on,  and  came  at  last  to  V.,  an  ugly,  squalid,  big 
village  or  little  town  of  mean  black-mudded 
streets.  The  afternoon  had  turned  sour-tem- 
pered, and  was  for  raining,  but  compromised 
with  a  dripping  fog.  We  went  first  into  the 
yard  of  a  big  steam  flour-mill:  and  there  fires 
were  made,  and  the  men's  tea  was  got  ready. 

As  the  red  flames  flared  up,  the  shabby  day- 
light confessed  itself  mere  darkness,  and  almost 
suddenly  one  noticed  that  behind  the  groups  of 
soldiers,  who  gathered  round  the  first,  their 
faces  and  khaki  all  reddened  the  night  was  cow- 
ering in.  The  men,  tired  maybe,  seemed  to  talk 
less  than  usual,  as  they  stared  into  the  fires, 
and  held  out  their  hands  to  the  blaze. 

'*  They  talk  ugly  here"  one  of  them  observed 
in  low  tones  to  his  neighbour.  '*  I  suppose  it's 
Belgian  what  they  talk.  French  sounds  a  deal 
nicer. '  * 


182  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

The  other  man  nodded,  but  did  not  pursue  the 
philological  inquiry. 

After  a  while  our  own  tea  was  ready,  and  we 
had  it  in  a  very  floury  room,  with  an  empty  sack 
apiece  for  fauteuil.  M.  I'Aumonier  would  have 
been  much  scandalized.  All  the  same  the  tea 
was  hot  and  tasted  very  good — one  did  not  much 
like,  then,  the  peculiar  sweetness  that  condensed 
milk  gives :  but  I  had  some  the  other  day  again, 
and  the  taste  of  it  brought  back  those  days,  and 
those  who  were  one's  comrades  then,  and  I  liked 
it. 

After  tea  we  stood  about  in  the  ugly,  dirty 
[street ;  and  after  an  hour  or  so  were  told  that  we 
were  billeted  in  the  Mairie.  It  was,  somehow, 
like  a  school-house,  and  new,  and  rather  clean 
and  bare.  There  we  dined  and  someone  said, 
looking  up  at  the  fearsome  prints  of  King  Albert 
and  Queen  Elizabeth  on  the  wall,  that  it  was 
respectable  to  be  in  a  Kingdom,  instead  of  a 
Republic,  once  more. 

Next  morning  we  went  on  to  E.,  arriving  there 
quite  early.  It  looked  pretty  as  we  drew  near 
to  it,  and  even  the  actual  village  was  much  nicer 
than  V.  To  the  left,  as  we  came  in,  in  a  really 
park-like  pare,  there  was  a  large  placid-looking 
chateau  that  lay  dreaming  in  a  sunny  haze ;  the 
old  master  was  there,  they  told  us  at  the  lodge- 


WEST  FLANDERS  183 

gates,  his  sons  all  away  at  the  war — everyone 
always  spoke  of  the  war  as  if  it  were  somewhere 
else.  Not  far  from  the  chateau  was  a  hamlet  of 
half  a  dozen  houses  and  a  mill,  and  in  one  quite 
small  house  the  whole  of  us,  nearly  three  hun- 
dred, were  billeted.  The  Ancient  sallied  forth, 
by  himself,  to  explore.  The  village  consisted  of 
two  streets,  now  packed  with  French  artillery 
and  cavalry:  the  houses  were  homely  looking 
and  not  ugly ;  and  there  was  a  large  church,  and 
a  large  convent  of  nuns.  It  was  a  pretty  church, 
and  old  and  pleasant;  and  the  convent,  which 
joined  the  back  of  the  chateau,  had  the  air  of 
nestling  under  its  protection. 

In  the  church  they  were  beginning  a  Requiem, 
and  the  dead  person  was  carried  in  just  as  the 
Ancient  arrived.  A  very  old  nun,  they  said :  but 
the  nuns  who  acted  as  chief  mourners,  walk- 
ing nearest  to  the  bier,  holding  tall  white  lilies 
in  their  hands  were  young  girls — novices. 

The  Office  was  very  well  sung,  and  almost 
everyone  in  the  large  crowded  church  joined  in 
the  plain-chant.  There  were  many  soldiers, 
French  and  Belgian,  and  they  were  all  very 
reverent  and  devout.  Somehow,  the  Dies  Irae 
sung  by  them,  in  the  midst  of  the  war,  added  to 
its  thousand  meanings  a  new  one,  august  and 
awful  like  the  others. 


184  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

It  would  have  made  a  marvellous  picture :  the 
open  bier  (there  was  no  catafalque)  with  its 
sumptuous  but  simple  pall,  the  novices  nearest 
to  it,  the  older  nuns  next,  and  then  the  great 
crowd  of  soldiers  and  priests  and  village-folk, 
and  behind  all  the  arches  and  sunlit  windows  of 
the  fine  old  Flemish  church. 

It  is  all  gone  now.  The  church  is  gone,  and 
the  village,  the  convent  and  presbytery:  not  a 
house  left,  except  the  chateau.  Out  of  our  ham- 
let we  ourselves  were  shelled  that  very  night. 
The  old  nun  got  her  peaceful  burial  only  just  in 
time. 

When  the  Requiem  was  over,  and  the  dead 
nun  had  been  laid  in  her  grave  by  the  convent 
wall,  there  was  another  funeral,  a  stranger  this 
time :  a  young  French  soldier-lad  who  had  been 
killed  near  the  village  the  day  before.  A  French 
priest,  not  a  chaplain,  read  the  Office ;  himself  a 
young  soldier,  too,  a  rouge-pantalon — the  red 
trousers  are  gone  now:  the  war  has  carried  off 
them  and  a  hundred  other  prettinesses  that  have 
been  found  useless.  For  the  war  is  all  grim  fact, 
and  "  pomp  and  circumstance"  is  a  discarded 
tradition. 

I  fancied  that  the  priest,  who  was  a  fantassin, 
had  been  comrade  of  the  lad  he  was  laying  back 
into  the  bosom  of  our  mother  earth;  what  he 


WEST  FLANDERS  185 

had  to  do  moved  him  visibly,  audibly.  His  fine, 
sensitive  mouth  was  hard  to  control,  and  the 
words  shook  as  they  came  out.  "  Even  though 
he  be  dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  And  no  man  living 
that  believeth  in  Me  shall  be  dead  for  ever." 
And  all  his  mother  came  into  his  eyes  as  he 
watched  the  raw  coffin  disappear  under  the  rat- 
tling clods  of  earth. 

The  old  nun  and  the  young  soldier  lay  quite 
near  to  one  onother:  one  so  close  to  her  home, 
the  others  so  far  from  his;  both  bound  on  the 
same  journey,  Avith  the  same  patient  Guide. 

Then  the  Ancient  went  and  found  the  parish 
priest  to  arrange  for  Mass  on  the  morrow.  His 
presbytery  w^as  quite  near  the  church,  in  a  shady 
green  garden.  It  is  all  destroyed  now:  and  it 
looked  so  permanent.  Generations  of  priests 
had  lived  there,  and  it  was  notable  and  dignified. 
I  suppose  the  Cures  of  E.  had  been  personages 
of  some  local  importance.  Out  of  the  windows 
one  saw  the  grey  old  church  and  the  homely, 
gentle-looking  convent.  There  are  no  windows 
left,  and  there  are  only  ruins  to  be  seen  from 
the  trampled  garden.  There  is  no  such  place 
as  E.  any  more.  Do  we  realize  that  sort  of  thing 
here  in  England"? 

From  the  presbytery  the  Ancient  went  strol- 
ling through  the  village,  and  made  a  friend. 


186  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

A  smith  was  shoeing  a  cavalry  horse,  and  a 
young  cuirassier  was  watching  it  with  his  hands 
in  his  big  pockets.  The  horse  would  not  stand 
still,  and  the  smith  lost  his  temper  and  kicked 
the  beast. 

The  cuirassier  shook  his  head  and  moved  off. 

*'  You  dislike  that,  too?"  said  the  Ancient. 

*'  Yes.  If  I  stayed  there  I  should  say  things. 
And  perhaps  too  much.  I  think  the  man  has 
been  tried:  he  has  been  shoeing  horses  since 
dawn:  and  many  of  them  are  mediants." 

"  You  are  meridional?" 

**  Yes.  A  cultivateur  from  the  Pyrenees.  We 
live  near  to  Lourdes.  You  know  about 
Lourdes?" 

So  we  talked  of  Lourdes,  and  Argeles,  ''  the 
loveliest  valley  in  the  world":  and  he  talked  of 
his  home ;  what  a  queer  superstition  it  is  of  the 
English  that  only  they  care  much  for  home !  If 
they  heard  French  peasants  talk  of  home  I  With 
what  a  sickness  of  longing,  with  what  an  aching 
passion  of  tenderness ! 

Jean  Marie  had  a  mother:  his  fatl]!)er  was 
dead;  had  died  in.  the  bad  winter  when  many 
cattle  were  drowned,  and  many  garnered  crops 
ruined,  by  the  overflow  of  the  Gave.  His  mother 
had  three  sons,  all  at  the  war.    And  she  wrote 


WEST  FLANDERS  187 

constantly  to  all  three.  That  is,  her  brother  who 
was  M.  le  Cure,  wrote  the  letters  for  her. 

"  Tiens!  he  writes  like  the  Pope,  mon  oncle,'* 
boasted  Jean  Marie.  "  And  he  taught  us,  Jules, 
and  Gaston  and  me;  we  also  write  well — he 
taught  us  to  choose  the  correct  expressions.  But 
my  mother  she  would  not  learn.  She  said  No, 
she  would  not  wish  to  do  a  thing  that  our  father 
could  not  do.    That  would  be  out  of  place." 

They  were  all  very  Catholic.  M.  le  Cure  saw 
to  that — and  I  do  not  think  his  task  was  diffi- 
cult; not  if  Jules  and  Gaston  were  like  Jean 
Marie.  The  big  stalwart  young  man  had  a  face 
on  which  the  devil  had  written  nothing.  I  should 
think  that  anything  foul  or  base  would  drop 
down  through  his  heart  as  stones  flung  into 
clear  water  fall  and  leave  all  clean  above. 

For  an  hour  he  and  the  Ancient  talked,  and 
often  since  have  they  talked  on  paper.  Once 
Jean  Marie  wrote  from  home.  *'  Being  here," 
said  he,  "  I  naturally  think  of  you." 

Could  any  word  be  kinder?  Being  at  his 
mother's  side  it  was  natural  he  should  think  of 
the  old  strange  father  he  had  found  on  the  road- 
side in  the  war. 

''  I  have  nine  days'  permission,"  he  wrote, 
''  and  of  course  I  have  told  them  all  about  you. 
M.  le  Cure,  my  uncle,  says  I  must  have  been 


188  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

indiscreet.  He  requests  that  I  offer  to  you  his 
most  respectful  souvenirs.  I  hope  you  have  not 
been  thinking  me  indiscreet." 

That  was  only  one  of  many  letters  and  the 
latest  is  not  many  days  odl. 

While  the  Ancient  talked  to  him  a  Colonel 
jumped  out  of  a  motor-car,  and  rushed  up  to 
him.  They  had  not  met  since  the  Colonel  was 
a  slim  subaltern  (at  Malta)  with  a  most  exquis- 
ite voice  for  singing.  He  was  now  long  married, 
with  big  children — and  a  presence. 


XII 

LOVE   IN   A    MIST 

"When,  on  Saturday  night,  November  7,  v?^  were 
shelled  out  of  our  quarters  in  the  hamlet  outside 
E.  we  did  not  retreat  far,  but  went  back,  I  sup- 
pose a  kilometre,  along  the  road  by  which  we  had 
come  in  the  morning — the  high  road  from  the 
French  frontier,  and  B. 

It  was  a  very  flat  road,  very  Flemish,  with 
spongy  flat  meadows  on  either  side  of  it,  and 
here  and  there  a  small  farm.  Even  by  daylight 
there  would  have  been  no  view,  and  we  marched 
along  under  a  dusky  glimmer  that  could  hardly 
be  called  moonlight,  though  the  moon  was  not 
quite  in  her  last  quarter.  On  that  day  Mercury 
had  made  a  transit  across  the  sun's  disc,  but  his 
little  trip  had  not  been  noted  by  us,  who  were 
more  concerned  with  the  behavior  of  Mars,  and 
left  Mercury  to  his  devotee  the  Crown  Prince. 

Our  new  quarters  were  less  cramped  than 
those  out  of  which  we  had  been  forced  to  flee: 
there  was,  at  all  events,  more  room  for  the  men. 

189 


190  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

A  little  back  from  the  high  road,  which  was 
here  a  raised  causeway  between  swampish  fields, 
lay  a  farm,  with  thatched  ramshackle  bars,  and 
a  small  ramshackle  dwelling  house.  The  farmer, 
like  the  man  in  the  Gospel,  seemed  disposed  to 
argue  that  the  door  was  shut  (which  it  certainly 
was)  and  his  children  vdth  him  in  bed,  and  that 
he  would  prefer  not  to  be  troubled.  We,  how- 
ever, took  up  the  line  of  Mrs.  Malaprop,  that  he 
had  nothing  to  do  with  preference  and  aversion : 
and  ultimately  he  shambled  out,  with  a  weak 
smile  and  a  pale  lanthorn.  While  waiting  for 
him  we  had  had  ample  time  to  admire  the  great 
feature  of  his  residence — its  dung-heaps,  or 
midden.  The  midden  is,  so  to  speak,  the  park 
of  your  Flemish  homestead.  On  it  every  window 
depends  for  its  view;  there  the  children  play, 
and  there  the  cattle  chew  their  cud  of  sweet — 
or  bitter — fancy:  there  the  farmer  relaxes  him- 
self in  hours  of  leisure,  turning  it  over  with  pen- 
sive appreciation  to  awake  fresh  odours :  beside 
it  sits  his  wife,  her  labour  done,  and  surveys  its 
oozy  mounds,  which  are  all  the  hills  she  knows. 

This  one  was  particularly  extensive  —  and 
treacherous.  Without,  probably,  any  means  of 
subsequently  washing  oneself  or  one's  gar- 
ments, it  was  startling  to  find  how  deeply  the 
unwary  visitor  sank  in  it. 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  191 

*'  Is  that  your  'ead  sticking  out  !"  I  heard  one 
of  our  humourists  (a  Londoner)  call  out  to  a  too 
adventurous  comrade.  *'  Put  yer  tongue  out 
and  I'll  'aul  yer  up." 

Well,  our  host  appeared,  smiling  and  sleepy, 
and  he  made  our  two  hundred  and  eighty  men 
honorary  members  of  his  barns. 

In  they  trooped,  laughing,  pushing,  crowding, 
and  exchanging  pleasantries. 

*'  It's  a  bit  of  a  shame  disturbin'  the  rat 
battalion — up  to  strength,  and  no  error — they 
was  billeted  'ere  first, ' '  observed  our  London  wit. 
"  'Ere,  Ponto;  'ere,  Fido^"  he  called  out,  slap- 
ping his  thigh  and  making  whistling  noises  as 
though  opening  an  acquaintance  with  strange 
dogs. 

A  dry  barn,  full  of  dry  hay  or  straw,  makes  a 
pleasant  bedroom :  I  hope  those  barns  were  dry, 
but  they  looked  sodden  and  oozy,  as  though 
meant  for  overflow  meetings — ^from  the  midden. 

The  fourteen  oflficers  had  more  aristocratic 
quarters,  a  small  kitchen  that  smelt  of  cows  and 
mice,  and  a  smaller  kitchen  that  smelt  of  cheese 
and  second-hand  clothes.  It  was  so  dark  that 
we  optimistically  resolved  to  assume  that  the 
mud  floors  were  clean. 

**  They 're  as  clean  as  you  are  anyhow.  Chut- 
ney," I  heard  our  New  Zealander  boast  to  our 


192  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

youngest  officer.  ''  I  saw  you  trip  on  the 
midden. ' ' 

**  I  believe  the  floor's  made  of  midden,"  re- 
torted Chutney  with  some  acumen;  ''patted 
midden,  squeezed  down,  and  aired." 

Whatever  it  was  made  of  it  was  our  bedstead. 
Our  bedding  was  our  own,  and  had  perhaps  its 
own  secrets.  Don't  despise  us  if  we  were  dirty; 
how  clean  would  you  be  if  you  never  had  a  bath  ? 

By  the  time  our  blankets  had  all  been  laid 
down,  as  near  to  each  other  as  might  be,  there 
was  no  floor  left.  Mine  w^as  laid  against  the  door 
of  a  cupboard,  out  of  which  little  mousey  noises 
came  once  or  twice  during  the  night:  in  the 
morning  they  became  more  articulate. 

*'  Ope,  ope,"  squeaked  two  very  small  voices, 
and  four  little  hands  slapped  on  the  panels 
insistently. 

^'  Ope,  ope." 

*'  That's  Flemish,"  explained  Chutney,  who 
was  becoming  a  linguist.  ''I  bet  it  means 
*  open.'  " 

It  did,  and  when  I  had  taken  up  my  bed  in 
order  to  open,  out  came  a  couple  of  wee  figures, 
as  small  a  boy  as  ever  I  saw,  in  the  smallest  (but 
not  the  cleanest)  shirt  I  had  ever  seen  with  a 
pair  of  breeches  some  ten  inches  long,  worn  like 
a  stole,  and  a  sister  (who  was  younger  and  would 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  193 

have  been  smaller  had  that  been  possible)  attired 
in  a  sort  of  strait  waistcoat  and  curl-papers. 

Over  the  low  mounds,  consisting  of  officers, 
these  two  little  persons  made  hastily  across 
country  to  the  kitchen  door.  No  doubt  they 
were  shy,  but,  I  think,  they  thought  it  rather 
funny  too. 

The  Ancient  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
go  to  bed  again,  as  he  was  due  to  say  Mass 
betimes  in  the  parish  church  at  E.  The  cause- 
way between  the  house  and  the  midden  was  his 
dressing-room,  an  inverted  milking-pail  his 
dressing-table;  the  same  pail,  not  inverted,  his 
washing-stand.  The  water  in  it  looked  dismally 
like  that  which  lay  in  puddles  in  the  midden,  and 
it  had  both  body  and  bouquet. 

There  was  a  thick  wet  fog,  and  even  the  barns 
beyond  the  midden  were  out  of  sight ;  the  men 's 
voices  came  oddly  out  of  nowhere,  like  jokes  out 
of  eternity. 

In  such  a  fog,  had  there  been  any  way  to  find, 
it  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  lose  it.  But 
one  only  had  to  turn  to  the  left  on  reaching  the 
road  and  keep  on.  Apart  from  the  fog,  there 
would  have  been  but  little  light  yet;  people 
meeting  on  that  road  could  have  no  idea  what 
each  other  might  be  like  till  within  a  foot  or  two 
of  each  other.    Only  once,  while  still  quite  out 


194  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

in  the  country,  did  the  Ancient  meet  anybody: 
then  it  was  a  party  of  soldiers — would  they  prove 
to  be  Germans?  It  seemed  likely  enough  that 
during  the  night  the  village  might  have  been 
taken  by  the  Germans. 

'^  What  should  you  do,  Ancient,"  his  brother- 
officers  sometimes  asked  him,  *'  if  in  your 
wanderings  you  should  wander  into  a  German 
outpost  r' 

"  I  shouldn't  have  to  do  anything.  They 
would  probably  do  anything  that  might  be 
required." 

It  may  here  be  remarked  that  some  of  those 
brother-officers,  who  have  now  read  these  papers, 
protest  that  they  never  did  call  him  '^  Ancient  " 
— which  is  quite  true.  And  some  ladies,  play- 
fellows of  his  in  old  Gracechurch  days  and,  so  to 
speak  coeval  with  him,  object  that  it  is  a  very 
silly  title.  Very  likely,  but  it  was  adopted  to 
avoid  the  use  of  another  which  seemed  too  grand 
for  this  place,  and  to  escape  from  the  too  fre- 
quent recurrence  of  the  first  personal  pronoun. 

The  soldiers  did  not  prove  to  be  Germans  but 
French,  their  blue  uniform  looking  almost  black 
in  the  fog;  they  were  cold,  and  silent,  a  sort  of 
early-morning  moroseness  clinging  about  them 
like  the  dank  mist. 

The  French  still  held  the  village,  though  most 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  195 

of  the  troops  that  had  filled  it  yesterday  were 
gone.  So  far  as  one  could  see  in  the  fog,  no  harm 
had  been  done  yet.  The  only  lives  lost  dur- 
ing the  night  had  been  those  of  fifteen  horses, 
in  a  field  behind  the  church,  killed  by  the  burst- 
ing of  a  '^  Black  Maria."  Even  now  the  place 
is  held  by  us,  though  it  is  no  longer  a  village — ■ 
as  has  been  said:  houses,  church,  convent,  all 
obliterated,  only  the  chateau,  out  in  its  park,  still 
standing. 

When  the  Ancient  got  back  to  the  Flemish 
farm  after  Mass  he  found  the  men  lined  up  in 
the  road  ready  to  march,  which  they  did  in  a  few 
minutes.  The  fog  had  now  grown  thinner,  which 
gave  it  the  effect  of  having  drawn  back,  so  that 
the  near  fields  were  visible  but  those  beyond  still 
conjectural,  hidden  in  what  was  now  a  white 
mist. 

That  was  for  some  hours  a  day  of  marching 
and  countermarching.  We  went  always  along 
flat  roads  between  flat  fields,  passing  through 
several  hamlets  and  shabby  villages :  everywhere 
there  were  French  troops,  nowhere  did  we  fall 
in  with  any  English.  As  the  days  strengthened 
the  sun  came  out  and  the  last  rags  of  mist  were 
torn  from  even  the  distant  trees.  The  trees  were 
seldom  of  much  account  and  always  grew  along 
the   hedges   of  the  square  monotonous  fields: 


196  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

wherever  there  were  any  their  slight  cover  was 
sedulously  used  by  the  bivouacking  French 
soldiers. 

'  As  we  went  through  one  hamlet  it  seemed  as 
if  the  soldiers  watched  us  pushing  on  for  the 
open  country  beyond  with  an  air  half  amused, 
half  puzzled.  However,  we  kept  on  our  way  for 
another  twenty  minutes  then  a  halt  was  called, 
and  the  whole  unit  had  to  turn  and  go  back.  We 
were  quite  close  to  the  line  of  German  trenches. 
We  all  seemed  amused  and  the  men  chaffed. 

* '  Pity  we  didn  't  carry  on  a  bit,  we  might  have 
had  German  sausages  for  dinner, ' '  I  heard  them 
declaring. 

About  one  o'clock  we  had  a  more  British  din- 
ner in  a  flat,  sticky,  ploughed  field.  Afterwards 
two  officers  asked  me  if  I  would  go  on  with  them 
in  search  of  billets,  and  off  we  went.  After  some 
wandering  through  lanes  we  got  back  to  the  high 
road  between  E.  and  R.,  reaching  it  at  a  point 
where  there  was  a  small  wayside-shrine.  Hard 
by,  four  wooden  crosses,  with  the  names  painted 
on  them,  marked  the  last  resting-place  of  four 
British  soldiers  whose  life's  march  had  ended 
there :  they  had  been  killed,  I  think,  on  the  24th 
of  October. 

Opposite  was  the  entrance-road  of  a  biggish 
fann,  but  some  men  in  a  waggon  told  us  it  was 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  197 

already  occupied  by  troops  of  another  division. 
We  had  the  same  luck,  or  ill-luck,  at  half  a  dozen 
other  places  we  tried.  Finally  we  reached  a 
hamlet  called  0.,  at  cross-roads,  and  tried  an- 
other house  that  looked  hopelessly  too  small :  but 
that  also  was  pre-engaged.  Then  we  went  on 
a  few  hundred  yards  and  came  to  a  very  poor 
estaminet  on  the  road  side,  a  brick  cottage  with 
slated  roof,  one  story  high,  but  long.  There  the 
Ancient  was  left  in  case  the  unit  might  come  by, 
and  the  other  two  officers  went  to  try  two  little 
farms  visible  across  the  fields. 

It  was  rather  dull  waiting,  and  he  had  to 
wait  a  long  while.  Now  and  then  a  Flemish 
yokel  would  saunter  disjointedly  up,  peer  away 
across  the  flat  and  ugly  country,  and  sigh  him- 
self into  the  estaminet.  The  afternoon  grew 
chilly,  and  as  the  sun  set  there  were  strange 
clouds  high  up  in  the  faint  topaz-tinted,  sky, 
clouds  like  red  palm-branches  crossed  trophy- 
wise.  The  lonely  Ancient  watching  them 
prayed  they  might  be  omens  of  victory  and 
peace.  Well,  there  is  always  peace  and  victory 
up  where  they  were,  in  the  aloof  heavens ;  palms 
stand  for  martyrdom,  too,  and  it  was  a  martyr- 
country,  that  Belgium  on  whose  outraged  soil  he 
stood. 

**  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air"  thought 


198  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

the  Ancient.  There  was  no  wind,  but  now  and 
then  a  chill  breathing,  as  out  of  a  cold  mouth. 
The  red  palms  faded  and  the  sky  changed  her 
topaz  robe  for  shabbier  night-gear.  Quoting 
Hamlet  made  the  Ancient's  ever  vagrant  fancy 
turn  to  another  Mad  Prince.  Was  he  also,  per- 
haps, looking  up  at  the  sad  heavens?  Had  they 
any  reproach  for  him,  any  menace?  Could  he 
ever  bear  to  be  alone  in  such  a  silence  as  might 
make  audible  the  voices  of  indignant  shades? 
He  who  had  cried  *'  Havoc!"  and  let  loose  the 
dogs  of  war,  had  he  any  horror  of  himself?  Up 
and  down,  to  keep  himself  warm,  the  Ancient 
paced  the  muddy  road  outside  that  shabby  wine- 
shop. The  folk  inside  could  not  be  very  merry 
in  their  cups :  there  came  no  sound  of  laughter, 
hardly  any  of  voices. 

Presently  a  girl  came  to  the  door :  would  Mon- 
sieur come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  coifee? 

"  Ah,  you  talk  French?" 

^'  Yes,  Monsieur;  I  am  not  Fleming,  I  am  Wal- 
loon. Resfugiee.  We  are  almost  all  refugiees 
in  there." 

She  was  not  of  course,  the  mistress  of  the 
place.  Neither  master  or  mistress  spoke 
French,  though  France  was  so  near. 

Inside  it  was  almost  completely  dark.  There 
were  perhaps  twenty  people  there.     A  dozen 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  199 

refugees,  whose  homes  had  ceased  to  exist;  and 
the  rest  the  host,  and  hostess,  and  their  few  and 
sombre  customers.  There  was  hardly  any  talk- 
ing. They  had  the  war  in  their  hearts,  and  gos- 
sip was  strangled  by  it.  I  do  not  think  that,  af- 
ter all,  any  one  was  drinking.  An  old  woman 
sat  near  the  dull  stove,  a  little  child  at  her 
knees,  whose  small  fat  palms  she  kept  softly 
slapping  with  her  own  bony  and  lean  old  hands. 

<<  My  grandmother  and  my  brother,"  ex- 
plained the  girl  who  had  called  the  Ancient  in, 
seeing  his  eyes  turned  towards  them. 

He  went  up  and  spoke  to  the  old  homeless 
creature. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  she  answered,  "  all  our 
folk  are  on  the  Cross.  Let  the  Crucified  turn  to 
them. ' ' 

' '  And  we  to  Him.    Of  Him  there  is  no  doubt. ' ' 

We  did  not  talk  long  or  much.  Shall  a  strang- 
er intermeddle  with  our  grief? 

There  was  a  fine  air  of  reverence  towards  her 
age  and  anguish  among  all  the  rest.  The  girl 
told  the  Ancient  very  simply  that  it  must  be 
much  worse  for  the  very  old. 

'^  My  grandmother  never  went  out,"  she  said, 
'*  she  sat  at  home.  She  never  made  journeys  in 
her  life.  And  how  can  she  hope  to  see  the  end 
of  the  war?    If  we  go  back  some  day,  how  can 


200  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

she  hope  to  be  with  us?    For  us  young  ones  it 
is  different.    Even  the  war  can't  last  always." 

''  May  God  send  you  happy  days,  my  poor 
child." 

'*  We  must  take  such  days  as  He  sends.  I 
am  fiancee.  But  he  is  killed — was  killed  in  the 
very  beginning,  at  Namur." 

When  the  Ancient  came  out  into  the  dusk 
again,  to  continue  his  marching  up  and  down, 
there  was  plenty  to  think  of.  Oh,  God,  how 
long!  Eh,  how  many  more  must  there  be  now, 
fresh-slain,  to  cry  from  under  the  altar  before 
the  white  throne — **How  long,  0  Lord,  dost 
Thou  not  judge  and  avenge  our  blood?" 

And  in  the  soft  sad  sighing  of  the  night-breath 
came  the  answer:  "  Rest  a  little  season  till  your 
fellow-servants  also,  and  your  brothers,  that 
shall  be  killed  as  you,  till  their  number  be  ful- 
ifilled." 

Surely  these  are  they  who  come  out  of  great 
tribulation,  and  even  them  also  prayer  can  fol- 
low with  its  wistful  arms  of  reverent  pity. 

The  thought  of  the  ruined  homes  so  sharply 
brought  there  home  to  him,  in  that  meagre  and 
,poor  place,  must  needs  send  the  Ancient 's  heart 
yearning  to  his  own.  How  could  he  help  think- 
ing of  it,  and  of  the  face  he  loved  best  looking 
out  of  a  window  to  see  him  go — on  that  drizzling 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  201 

August  afternoon  that  seemed  so  endlessly  long 
ago?  How  terrible  had  been  the  patience  of 
that  noble  face,  how  awful  the  obedience  of  its 
smile,  that  had  to  come  because  the  great  heart 
so  near  breaking,  insisted. 

Only  a  few  days  before  that  parting  had  he 
knelt  at  her  knees,  as  over  half  a  century  before 
he  had  knelt  there  to  hear  for  the  first  time  of 
the  Anguish  and  Murder  of  God. 

**  I  have  to  tell  you  something  that  you  will 
not  like." 

**  You  are  going  to  the  war.  We  must  each 
do  our  part."  His  to  go;  hers  to  suffer.  And 
her  old,  old  white  hand  was  laid  upon  his  old 
white  head. 

That  the  war  should  strike  men;  w^ell,  so  long 
as  wars  must  be :  but  that  it  should  strike  women, 
and  so  much  more  cruelly !  For  it  is  crueller  to 
sit  at  home,  wondering,  wondering,  fearing, 
hungry  in  ignorance  for  news  that  may  be  so 
awful  when  they  come,  that  is  much  more  cruel 
than  to  go,  out  among  strange  scenes  and  people, 
with  insistent  duties  to  fill  the  hours;  eh!  what 
will  be  the  women's  testimony  against  the  man 
who,  in  the  restless  chambers  of  his  irresponsible 
mind,  forged  the  war  on  the  ruthless  anvil  of 
his  heartless  heart? 

It  was  very  long  before  the  other  two  officers 


202  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

came  back.  They  had  at  last  found  two  farms 
close  together,  both  miserable  enough,  but  the 
barns  of  both  together  would  just  hold  our  men, 
and  in  one  v/ere  a  couple  of  small  rooms  that 
must  hold  us.  We  went  there,  and  there  for 
about  five  years  (a  fortnight  nominally)  we 
stayed  almost  idle,  for  it  was  our  turn  to  stand 
back — and  feel  as  though  we  were  forgotten, 
fetranded  in  some  oozy  back-water  of  the  war. 

The  woman  of  the  farm  where  we  officers  had 
our  wretched  quarters  had  the  noisiest,  most 
piercing  voice  ever  heard  out  of  a  nightmare. 
She  was  yoangish  and  strong,  and  all  her 
strength  had  its  citadel  in  her  big,  loose-lipped 
mouth.  She  also  possessed  the  gift  of  ubiquity. 
Her  screaming  voice  was  everywhere  at  once. 
To  her  husband,  I  think,  it  was  a  singular  holi- 
day that  her  scoldings  should  be  divided  among 
so  many  strangers  instead  of  falling,  like  sting- 
ing thongs  of  raw  hide,  on  his  helpless  slouching 
back.  She  was,  most  likely,  a  worthy  creature 
and  resolved  to  be  a  good  wife ;  to  yell  her  hus- 
band into  prosperity,  and  scream  her  little  girls 
into  affluence  and  ultimate  good  marriages.  The 
only  things  she  had  no  time  for  was  to  be  ever 
in  the  least  pleasant;  in  war-time  luxuries  are 
out  of  place,  and  that  luxury  was  the  first  she 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  203 

discarded.    In  times  of  peace,  charity  bade  one 
surmise,    she    might    be    an    engaging   person. 
It  is  impossible  to  convey  the  slushy  dirtiness 
of  that  place.     The  grand  approach  (and  only 
one)    was  through  the   midden.    Our   two   tiny 
rooms  opened  on  it,  and  every  time  any  one  of 
us  came  in — there  were  fourteen  of  us  without 
counting  our  servants — we  brought  some  of  it 
in  with  us.    And  the  fields  beyond  were  quag- 
mires of  sticky  mud,  for  the  snow  came  now, 
and  rotted  them.     At  night  there  were  hard 
frosts,  but  the  sun  came  in  the  day  and  melted 
enow  and  frost  and  rotted  the  deep  soft  Flemish 
earth.    It  was  bitterly  cold  and  we  were  tireless, 
and  the  only  chance  of  air  and  ventilation  lay  in 
keeping  the  windows  wide  open  so  that  the  snow 
came   driving  in,  and  the   ruthless  north-east 
wind.    The  room  we  all  sat  in  was  twelve  feet 
by  ten,  and  fourteen  people  (with  their  belong- 
ings) do  crowd  a  room  of  that  size.    Once  we 
were  all  in,  it  was  terribly  inconvenient  for  the 
others  when  anyone  wanted  to  go  out.    Before 
the  beds  could  be  laid  out  on  the  filthy  floor  the 
table  had  to  be  taken  to  bits  and  got  rid  of. 

The  Ancient  confesses,  meekly,  that  the  appal- 
ling cold  was  more  terrible  to  him  than  the  dirt : 
his  feet  were  always  what  is  called  dead,  and 


204  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

they  were  never  dry.  Every  night  he  went  oiit 
in  the  dark  to  wash  them  in  snow,  sitting, 
as  needs  mnst,  in  the  snow  to  do  it.  It  might 
keep  them  clean,  but  it  certainly  did  not  make 
them  warm. 

The  German  lines  were  pretty  near,  and  the 
noise  of  the  great  guns  never  ceased,  but  was 
always  most  at  nights.  Of  course  our  farm  was 
far  within  range  had  the  enemy  chosen,  as  any 
moment  they  might  choose,  to  pick  it  out. 
Sometimes  one  could  tell  by  the  noise  that  a 
Black  Maria  had  burst  in  one  of  the  fields  close 
to  us. 

Midden  Hall,  as  we  called  it,  was  certainly  an 
unpleasant  mansion :  its  barns  small,  rotten,  and 
filthy  and  itself  unspeakable.  But  it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  it  had  no  pleasures. 

There  were  our  own  men  to  look  after,  and 
there  was  time  enough  to  go  farther  afield.  All 
round  us  were  French  troops,  and  the  hamlet  at 
0.  (our  own  hamlet)  was  crowded  with  them,  so 
was  the  big  village  of  R.  a  mile  or  so  away. 
There  were  Belgian  troops  too,  but  these  were 
resting,  i.  e.,  mending  the  road  between  us  and  R. 
Hardly  any  of  them  spoke  French:  I  suppose 
they  belonged  to  Flemish  battalions.  Utterly 
devoid  of  Flemish  the  Ancient  was  determined 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  205 

to  open  relations  with  them  all  the  same :  and  it 
was  done  by  means  of  medals,  scapulars,  and 
little  Crucifixes,  on  an  afternoon  of  driving  snow, 
biting  wind,  and  deep,  deep  mud.  What  had 
been  the  road  was  a  mud-river,  from  eighteen 
inches  to  two  feet  deep.  On  the  following  after- 
noon the  Ancient  went  again  to  R.,  accompanied 
this  time  by  the  '*  Surgeon  in  Khaki,"  our  New 
Zealander,  and  another  young  officer  whom  one 
may  call  Stern,  not  because  he  was,  but  because 
his  real  name  was  rather  like  it. 

As  soon  as  we  appeared  on  the  stretch  of 
road  where  the  Belgian  soldiers  were  working 
they  crowded  up,  those  not  yet  medalled  ex- 
tremely eager  to  be  supplied.  If  they  could  not 
talk  English  or  French  they  could  smile,  and 
perhaps  a  conversation  consisting  of  smiles  goes 
as  far  towards  friendship  as  a  wordier  one  and 
I'scowls  therewith. 

Unfortunately  they  had  decided  that  the 
Ancient  was  a  bishop:  and  that  much  Flemish 
even  we  could  understand.  The  Ancient's 
frowns  of  disclaimer  apparently  only  con- 
vinced them  that  he  was  a  bishop  of 
irascible  temper. 

"  You'd  better  let  it  alone,"  declared  the  New 
Zealander,  '*  or  they'll  think  you're  something 


206  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

worse.    Till  you  can  talk  Dutch  you're  a  bishop, 
and  they  like  it." 

Whether  the  advice  was  conscientious  or  the 
reverse,  one  had  to  take  it :  that  it  was  not  con- 
scientious seemed  the  more  probable  from  the 
fact  that  the  New  Zealander  proceeded  to  en- 
courage the  possibly  drooping  spirits  of  these 
warriors  by  a  graphic  description  (in  dumb 
show)  of  a  decisive  victory  gained  by  our  side, 
of  which  no  official  notification  had  been  seen  by 
Stern  or  me. 

"  It  all  does  good,"  our  New  Zealander  ex- 
plained as  we  walked  on.  *'  I'm  all  for  medals. 
They  're  a  grand  thing  for  the  Entente. ' ' 

At  E.   I  had   already  some   old  friends    (of 
twenty-four  hours'  standing),  who  signalled  the 
arrival  of  the  "  English  Colonel-Priest."     At 
first  we  went  into  the  church,  which  was  large, 
and    pseudo-Gothic,    i.e.,    Gothic    with    strong 
Renaissance  leanings  in  matters  of  detail.     It 
was  now  a  bivouac,  and  stands  of  arms  stood 
here  and  there  in  the  clean  straw  with  which  the 
pavement  was  strewn,  and  groups  of  soldiers  lay 
asleep  under  the  monuments  of  those  who  had 
fallen  asleep  long  ago.     Other  groups  chatted, 
or  walked  about.     After  a  word  or  two  with 
some  of  these  (they  were  all  French)  they  hinted 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  207 

that  yesterday  their  comrades  had  been  given 
medals  and  scapulars.  So  with  his  back  against 
a  confessional  the  Ancient,  with  the  New  Zea- 
lander  and  Stern  for  deacon  and  subdeacon, 
began  his  distribution.  It  lasted  over  half  an 
hour,  and  many  hundreds  of  the  poor  lads  were 
made  happy.  At  that  time  French  chaplains 
were  not,  by  regulation,  allowed  to  give  medals 
or  pious  objects  to  their  men,  though  the  pro- 
hibition was,  I  fancy,  never  much  insisted  on 
after  the  war  began,  and  soon  fell  into 
oblivion. 

What  they  all  wanted  most  was  "  un  petit 
Christ,"  but  the  Ancient  had  not  Crucifixes 
enough  for  so  many  men.  Most  had  to  content 
themselves  with  medals  and  scapulars:  I  must 
6ay  all  were  grateful  for  what  they  did  get.  But 
there  were  three  whole  battalions  in  the  village, 
and  they  crowded  into  the  church  so  hopelessly 
that  we  had  to  come  out  into  the  street  and  finish 
our  distribution  there.  The  scene  in  the 
church  would  have  made  a  fine  painting  had 
some  old  Flemish  artist  come  out  of  hjs  tomb  to., 
fix  it  on  his  canvas.  The  westering  wintry  sun, 
poured  in  through  the  high  plain  glass  windows, 
lighting  up  arches  and  pillars;  the  choir  and 
altars  were  in  an  aloof  shadow :  and  so  was  ei}\ 


208  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

one  wall:  in  a  colder  twilight  was  the  straw- 
Istrewn  floor,  broken  by  stacked  arms  and  hud- 
dled groups  of  sleeping  soldiers :  round  the  con- 
fessional was  the  crowd  of  eager,  but  respectful 
men  of  war,  torn  so  lately  from  quiet  farms,  or 
gentle  arts  of  peace,  pressing  forward  to  receive 
each  his  sacred  emblem  of  the  great  Prince  of 
iPeace,  the  Counsellor,  the  Wonderful,  or  of  his 
sweet  Maid-Mother. 

"  I  must  say  I  do  like  it,"  quoth  our  New 
Zealander,  when  all  our  treasures  spent,  we 
turned  home.  *'  I  hope  Ancient  [sic]  you'll 
always  let  me  come  with  you  when  you  're  going 
to  do  it." 

*'  Ah,  but  I  don't  generally  know.  It  crops 
up.  I  knew  to-day,  but  as  a  rule  I  don't  know 
beforehand. ' ' 

Chutney  was  jealous  when  he  heard. 

**  You  never  asked  me  to  come,  Ancient,"  he 
complained. 

[He  certainly  never  said  Ancient,  though  he 
had  most  right  being  youngest  of  us  all,  a  mere 
boy,  full  of  a  boy's  quips  and  laughter.  And  he 
never,  never  will  grow  old.  The  Young  Man 
from  Nazareth  has  looked  on  him,  and  loved 
him,  and  taken  him  where  there  is  no  age,  nor 
.wrinkle,  nor  any  such  thing.] 


LOVE  IN  A  MIST  209 

"  You,  Chutney!  You  know  very  well  you 
were  gun-running  for  Carson  in  the  Black 
North  till  the  war  came.  Would  giving  popish 
gear  to  papists  be  in  that  line?" 

''  Ah,  dear  Ancient!  I'm  learning  things. 
Don't." 

And  the  Ancient,  who  greatly  loved  the  lad, 
was  ashamed. 


XIII 

SILENCE 

"Winter,  as  has  been  already  hinted,  came  while 
we  had  our  quarters  at  Midden  Hall,  West 
Manders.  And  when  it  came,  it  came  with  a 
murderous  thrust,  like  the  horribly  expert  lunge 
of  a  long  cold  sword,  out  of  the  east,  finding  out 
our  vitals.  A  wind  born  in  Siberia,  breeched 
amid  the  primeval  desolation  and  bleakness  of 
Russian  steppes,  and  attaining  its  swift  majority 
on  the  great,  grim  glowering  Central  Plain  of 
Europe  (enemy  territory)  brought  it  to  us,  and 
seemed  disposed  there  to  leave  it. 

While  the  wind  was  driest,  most  parching, 
hardest,  it  was  coldest,  with  the  unsparing  awful 
chill  that  seems  to  get  its  fangs  into  the  heart 
itself,  and  freeze  the  very  blood-springs.  The 
frost  it  brought  was  at  first  black  and  invisible — 
Iwhen  you  can  see  the  frost,  white  on  the  stubble 
and  spangled  wayside  weed,  it  is  never  so  piti- 
less. It  was  only  felt,  in  shaking  limb,  tense 
brow,  crackling  skin,  curdled  blood,  cracked  lip ; 

210 


SILENCE  211 

it  washed,  up  and  down  the  whole  body,  like  an 
icy  refluent  wave  getting  in  between  flesh  and 
bone,  and  further  in  yet  between  body  and  soul, 
n^o  turn  the  naked  face  to  the  wind  was  to  offer 
it  to  the  lash  of  a  cruel  whip. 

Then  the  snow  came ;  and  the  wind,  rollicking 
over  a  thousand  miles  of  snow,  was  not  warmed 
by  it. 

One  thought  *'  Crimean  winter!  Does  war 
breed  hard  winters  as  it  breeds  other  hard 
things  ? ' ' 

But  with  the  snow  it  grew  a  little  lighter.  The 
black  airs  of  those  first  days  of  the  murderous 
frost  softened  to  dingy  grey:  the  inhuman  iron 
of  the  low  skies  yielded  to  softer,  lower  clouds  of 
lead.  At  midday  there  might  be  a  little  sun,  at 
afternoon  was  a  frosty  mist,  i^allid 

"  Like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face  " 

clinging  to  the  snow-bound  flats.  Even  at  night 
the  fog  held  but  low  down,  clutched  to  the 
world's  cold  bosom.  Above,  it  was  clear,  and 
black  and  lonelier.  Trees  waded  in  the  white 
mist,  knee-high  but  their  branches  swung  free 
in  the  wind,  and,  high  up,  their  naked  black 
fingers  snatched  at  a  sU.v  or  two,  even  at  a 
frightened  moon  running  between  rags  of  cloud. 
On  one  of  the  last  afternoons  at  Midden  Hall 


212  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Stem  and  the  Ancient  sallied  forth  to  walk. 
They  turned  towards  Ypres,  only  fallen  into  the 
beginning  of  its  long  agony  then.  The  fields 
tilted  a  little,  upwards  towards  a  belt  of  wood, 
and  it  was  pretty,  in  a  wan  fashion — ^like  a  wood- 
cut of  Bewick's.  Beyond  the  little  wood  the 
way  dipped  again  to  cross-roads,  where  a  dozen 
cottages  huddled  round  a  small  inn.  At  that 
.spot  soon  afterwards  many  men  were  killed ;  the 
enemy  found  it  out  and  shells  fell  there  when- 
ever our  people  went  that  way. 

A  pale  gleam  of  sunlight  came  running  east- 
ward, like  a  hopeless  bulletin  from  the  short 
day's  death-bed:  it  made  the  snow  whiter,  and 
the  group  of  mean  dwellings  in  front  more 
sullenly  black. 

**It  is  like  a  Christmas  card,"  says  the 
Ancient. 

*'  Yes.  The  noise  of  the  guns  doesn't  show  in 
the  picture,"  Stern  comments  shrewdly. 

At  the  cross-roads  we  looked  right,  left, 
and  in  front.  The  leftwards  road  led  to 
Dickebusch. 

'*  Where  does  that  road  go?"  we  asked,  point- 
ing in  front,  of  a  French  soldier  who  stood, 
flapping  himself  with  his  arms  to  get  warm,  at 
the  corner. 

**  To  death,  I  should  say,"  he  replied  cheer- 


SILENCE  213 

fully,  without  pausing  in  his  flapping.  **  To 
shell-fire  and  the  result." 

*'  He  thinks  the  English  are  all  mad,  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  disappoint  him,"  declared  the 
Ancient. 

And  we  kept  ahead,  leaving  the  little  huddle 
of  dull,  brooding-looking  houses,  behind  us. 
There  was  another  tilt  upward  of  the  stark  and 
frozen  fields :  it  was  scarce  a  hill,  the  low  ridge 
to  which  the  road  led.  Still  it  was  hill  enough 
ito  bound  the  view  that  way.  To  the  right  the 
fields  ended  in  a  gaunt  spinney;  a  dozen  cows 
were  standing  about,  red,  I  suppose,  but  black 
to  the  eye  against  the  snow.  Presently  we  over- 
took a  man,  armed  with  a  large,  ill-folded 
umbrella.  He  ranged  alongside  and  walked 
quicker  as  though  he  had  purposely  loitered 
for  us  to  get  abreast  and  was  disposed  for  con- 
versation. He  asked  a  great  many  questions 
— and  seemed  in  high  spirits.  (The  Allies' 
affairs  were  not  supposed  to  be  roseate  just 
then.) 

*'  Tell  him  lies,"  suggested  Stern  calmly. 

^'  Fairy-tales  are  not  lies,"  said  the  Ancient, 
bethinking  himself  of  such  fairy-tales  as  Pip  told 
Pumblechook  and  Mrs.  Joseph  Gargery  when 
cross-questioned  after  his  first  interview  with 
Miss  Havisham. 


214  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

The  gentleman  with  the  umbrella  seemed 
worried  by  the  fairy-tales  and  nettled  by  them. 

At  the  top  of  the  little  lift  in  the  road  we  could 
see  straight  ahead,  across  downward  tilted  fields, 
to  a  very  near  horizon  scarfed  in  woodland. 
Here  we  stood  still  and  watched.  The  fringe  of 
woodland  was  scarcely  two  kilometres  from  us. 

**  Ah,"  says  our  inquisitive  friend,  *'  so  you 
think  it's  all  going  very  well?" 

''  Splendidly,"  quoth  Stern. 

*'  Then  there'll  be  good  news  soon,"  and  the 
owner  of  the  umbrella  chuckled,  and  grinned, 
and  sidled  off  across  the  snow  to  our  right, 
where  some  more  cows  were  standing  motionless 
in  the  frozen  stubble. 

It  appeared  necessary  for  him  now  to  wield 
the  umbrella ;  he  half  opened  it,  shut  it  again, 
waved  it,  half  opened  it  again,  but  without  going 
very  near  the  cows,  who  appeared  quite  un- 
moved by  his  gesticulations.  If  he  meant  to 
drive  them  he  seemed  singularly  contented 
with  very  slight  results — since  the  results  were 
nil. 

On  the  white  fields  his  figure  would  be  visible^ 
even  to  the  naked  eye,  from  further  off  than  the 
woods  over  yonder :  so  would  our  own  figures  be, 
But  through  field-glasses  his  gesticulations  might 
seem  less  village-idiot-like. 


SILENCE  215 

**  That,"  observed  Stern  with  conviction,  "  is 
a  scoundrel." 

At  that  moment  a  shell  fell,  and  burst  in  the 
snow,  not  fifty  metres  to  the  left  of  where  we 
tetood.  Almost  immediately  another  came,  a 
Black  Maria,  and  burst  a  little  nearer,  still  on 
the  left;  and  still  the  umbrella  was  busily  en- 
gaged. 

''  'Bout  turn.*  Eh  I"  said  Stern,  and  we 
started  homeward  not  very  talkative.  Other 
shells  came,  but  fell  wider;  and,  in  spite  of  the 
umbrella,  the  Ancient  felt  safer  when  the  little 
ridge  was  between  those  woodlands  and  himself 
and  his  friend. 

''I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence,  and 
not  cheerfully,  "  that  really  was  a  spy." 

*'  If  he  isn't,  then  I'm  one,"  answered  Stern 
coolly,  as  he  stood  still  to  fill  and  light  his 
pipe. 

Somehow  it  was  depressing. 

That  was  our  last  afternoon  at  Midden  Hall. 
Next  morning  we  had  orders  to  be  gone.  I  can- 
not say  that  our  screaming  hostess  seemed 
much  perturbed  at  our  departure. 

Through  0.  we  went;  then  along  a  flat  road 
with  trees  on  one  side;  behind  R. ;  then  up  a 
slowly  rising  road  to  the  ridge  that  there  divides 
Belgium  from  France.    A.  very  gallant,  gaunt 


216  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

body  of  men  at  one  point  came  riding  down  on 
lean  horses,  and  we  had  to  lie  to,  thrust  into  the 
hedge,  to  let  them  pass.  Some,  of  the  ofiScers 
even,  had  no  boots,  but  had  their  feet  swathed 
up  in  putties.  Many  of  the  men  were  quite 
tattered:  all  had  a  singular,  shining  air  of  gal- 
lantry and  high  heart.  Alas,  many  horses  were 
riderless;  he  who  rides  on  the  Pale  Horse  hav- 
ing set  their  masters  on  the  crupper  of  his  own 
saddle  and  ridden  off  with  them  to  the  City  of 
Great  Peace.  Every  uniform  was  war-stained: 
mud-stained,  rain-stained,  snow-stained,  battle- 
stained:  and  the  dingier  the  uniform  the  more 
gallant  and  noble  seemed  the  wearer. 

''  Who  are  you?'*  asked  the  Ancient,  clinging 
to  the  slippery  top  of  a  high  bank. 

''  Royal  Horse  Guards  Blue,"  cried  the 
trooper,  laughing  out  of  his  clear  blue  English 
eyes  into  the  Ancient's.  As  plainly  as  if  he  had 
time  to  say  it,  adding, ' '  Ever  seen  us  in  London ; 
mj  little  shabby  gentleman?" 

London  would  never  have  made  that  caval- 
cade the  poignant,  splendid  picture  it  was.  A 
little  step,  sirs,  but  an  infinite,  from  the  swell 
soldier  of  London  streets  to  the  shabby  hero 
there. 

Beyond  the  dip  of  the  hill  was  a  tiny  village — 
full  of  wintry  sunshine,  and  biting  wind  that 


SILENCE  217 

flapped  the  shutters  of  a  cabaret.  The  Royal 
Horse  Guards  Blue  were  there  too,  still  riding 
through.  A  very  young  officer,  but  very  big, 
had  got  off  his  horse,  and  was  unwinding  a 
blood-sopped  bandage  off  his  foot.  A  girl  came 
out  of  a  cottage  with  clean  strips  of  linen,  soft 
and  old;  she  was  for  kneeling  to  bind  the  hurt 
foot.  But  the  lad  blushed,  and  would  not  suffer 
that:  he  took  the  rags  and  thanked  her,  with  a 
very  gracious  and  sweet  smile,  but  would  do  it 
himself. 

**  Ladies,"  said  he,  using  the  word  he  meant, 
**  do  not  kneel  to  us  others,  men.  But  thank 
you,  thank  you,  very  much  indeed. ' ' 

**  Of  nothing,  Monsieur." 

The  Ancient  held  his  horse  while  he  wound  his 
bandage,  and  the  horse  nibbled,  with  lip  only, 
at  the  Ancient's  ear.  A  very  old  man  and 
a  very  young  boy  came  and  watched. 

When  the  tall  lad  of  an  officer  had  finished, 
mounted,  saluted  the  girl,  and  ridden  on,  with 
his  bandaged,  unbooted  foot  in  the  stirrup,  the 
old  man  asked  in  piping  treble,  pointing  after 
him  and  his  troopers : 

*'  De  quel  regiment.  Monsieur?" 

^'  D'un  regiment  des  Gardes-a-Cheval  de 
notre  roi.  Monsieur." 

'  '■  Quels  braves ! ' '  cried  the  old  man.    Neither 


218  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

he  nor  the  girl,  nor  the  little  fellow,  laughed  or 
smiled.  It  did  not  seem  to  strike  them  that  a 
King's  guard  might  be  more  resplendent  in 
tailor's  stuff. 

"  But  you  are  French?"  queried  the  Ancient. 

[We  were  in  Belgium  still.] 

*'  French,  Monsieur.  From  near  Arras. 
Mefugies." 

Thus  it  was  always.  Belgian  refugees  in 
France,  French  in  Belgium:  the  bitter  wave  of 
exile  surfing  over  the  frontier  like  a  sad  tide  over 
an  invisible  bar. 

The  last  of  the  cavaliers  disappeared  round 
the  twist  of  road  leading  up  out  of  the  village, 
and  presently  our  own  men  came  down.  After 
that  shallow  dip  the  way  swerved  up  again  to 
the  higher  ridge  on  the  top  of  which  Belgium  and 
France  met. 

The  Ancient  walked  on  alone,  eager  to  be  In 
France  again.  The  ridge  had  a  saddle-back,  and 
in  the  very  seat  of  the  saddle  sat  a  hamlet — a 
small,  clean,  cabaret,  and  less  than  a  half -score 
cottages.  Hungry  and  thirsty,  the  Ancient  went 
into  the  cabaret  and  asked  for  coffee  and  bread. 
A  comfortable  middle-aged  woman  gave  them 
to  him,  and  her  small  people  came  to  the  door 
of  the  house-place  to  watch.  Over  their  heads  the 
Ancient  could  see  their  grandmother,    knitting 


SILENCE  219 

and  saying  a  rosary  at  the  same  tinie.  Above 
the  shelves,  ranged  with  bottles,  in  the  outer 
room,  hung  the  crucifix :  you  see  it  everywhere  in 
the  cabarets  hereabouts. 

'■'■  Pray  for  mine,"  the  Ancient  asked  the 
grandmother,  giving  a  little  red  badge  of  God's 
Heart  to  each  of  the  children. 

''  Eh,  oui.  Monsieur  perhaps  has  left  a 
sister  at  home  ? — never  mind,  she  prays  for 
him. ' ' 

"  I  never  had  a  sister.  It  is  my  mother  who 
prays." 

^'  The  mother  of  Monsieur  must  be  old — as  I 
am." 

[Her  daughter  was  much  younger  than  the 
Ancient.] 

''  A  great  deal  older,  I  think." 

Then  they  all  fell  to  talking,  the  children  too, 
and  were  very  kind  and  friendly.  Some  men 
came  in,  and  the  guest  was  displayed  to  them 
with  much  complacence,  as  if  he  had  been  a  rare 
old  specimen,  taken  alive,  and  borrowed  from  a 
museum. 

The  coffee  was  being  made  hot  over  the  stove, 
and  the  Ancient  said : 

'*  I  am  going  out.  I  want  to  run  into  France. 
I  shall  come  back  immediately. ' ' 

It  was  about  thirty  yards  into  France.    There 


220  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

was  a  white  post  on  the  road-side  with  ''France" 
on  a  flap  on  one  side  of  it,  and  ''  Belgique"  on 
a  flap  on  the  other. 

Two  of  our  ofiScers  had  come  up  and  the 
Ancient  said  to  them : 

*  *  Come  and  be  in  France. '  * 

And  they  all  three  went  there.  Three  or  four 
French  soldiers  were  watching,  and  they  slightly 
plumed  themselves  when  they  saw  Major  O. 
bring  out  a  Kodak.  There  was  also  a  Belgian 
soldier,  who  affected  to  be  unaware  of  the 
camera,  and  looked  what  time  it  was  by  his 
wrist-watch  three  times  in  two  minutes. 

**  Come  and  be  the  Entente  Cordiale,"  sug- 
gested the  Ancient,  *'  M.  le  Commandant  is  go- 
ing to  make  a  photograph." 

They  all  came,  the  Belgian  warrior  assenting 
with  a  glance  of  surprise  towards  the  camera 
that  might  have  deceived  the  very  elect.  But 
he  had  cuffs,  and  adjusted  them. 

He  ranged  himself  to  the  Ancient's  right — ^in 
his  own  country:  the  Frenchmen  went  to  the 
Ancient's  left — in  theirs.  Half  the  Ancient  was 
in  the  Kingdom,  half  in  the  Republic. 

"Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  observed  the  Belgian, 
absent-mindedly,  with  a  watchful  eye  on  the 
camera,  "  donne  le  cote  gauche  a  la  France." 


SILENCE  221 

"  Oui,  Monsieur,  j'ai  en  France  le  flanc  gauche 
— ou  se  trouve  le  cceur." 

* '  Nous  vous  remer§ions,  Monsieur ! ' '  cried  one 
of  the  Frenchmen :  but  the  Belgian  was  arrang- 
ing the  set  of  his  mouth,  and  made  no  repartee. 

Wlien  the  Ancient  went  back  for  his  coffee, 
Madame  said; 

"  We  have  put  away  the  little  badges  Monsieur 
gave  our  petits.  When  the  bishop  comes  next 
time  they  shall  wear  them." 

The  New  Zealander  was  one  of  the  two 
ofl&cers — who  had  also  come  in;  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  the  Ancient  in  more  striking 
colours. 

* '  Writes  books ! ' '  cried  Madame. 

"  Tiens!"  cried  Madame 's  mother. 

**  What  puts  Monseigneur  in  the  books  V^ 
demanded  the  eldest  little  girl. 

"  All  sorts  of  things.  You,  perhaps,"  said  the 
New  Zealander,  pinching  the  child's  ear — as  if 
he  had  been  Napoleon. 

*'  Monsieur  aime  bien  les  enfants,"  quoth  the 
watching  mother  smilingly. 

Presently  we  all  went  on,  down  a  long  hill  into 
France :  and  half-way  down  it  a  breathless  little 
girl  came  running,  her  pigtail  sticking  out  behind 
like  the  handle  of  a  casserole. 


222  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

**  Monsieur!  Monsieur!"  she  called  out,  and 
the  Ancient  ranged  up. 

*'  Maman!"  she  gasped.  "  Petit  souvenirs. 
Pour  Monsieur.  Monseigneur  ..."  and  she 
proffered  a  yellow  envelope  containing  post- 
cards of  the  hamlet  in  the  saddle-back,  **  .  .  .  de 
la  part  de  maman.  ..." 

So  we  were  in  France  again :  and  the  westering 
sun  was  getting  ready  to  seek  his  early  (ill- 
earned)  rest  behind  a  French  horizon. 

The  Ancient  looked  to  right  and  left  lovingly. 

*'  Like  coming  home, "'he  thought. 

The  landscape  was  really  prettier — there  was 
a  landscape  anyway — and  it  lay  in  a  tenderer 
yellow-white  mist,  and  every  roof  scattered 
through  the  quiet  fields  sheltered  a  French 
hearth,  though  God  only  knew  how  many  gaps 
there  were  at  every  one  of  those  hearths. 

But  the  sun  set,  and  the  day  died,  and  the 
dusk  fell,  and  our  eastern  enemy  the  wind  came 
looking  for  us,  and  found  us,  even  there.  Not  a 
French  wind:  Pomeranian  I  should  say,  it  was 
so  snappish  and  waspish.  In  its  teeth  it  held 
sharp,  microscopic  ice-needles,  like  files  gro^vn 
tiny  from  industrious  in-breeding.  Wliew!  it 
was  cold.  That  sort  of  wind  makes  no  noise :  it 
comes  not  to  brag,  but  to  bite:  not  to  say  ''I'll 


SILENCE  223 

freeze  the  marrow  in  your  bones,"  but  to  do 
it.  A  wind  that  comes  from  kissing  the  savage 
northern  plains  of  Germany  is  (like  Habbakuk) 
capable  of  anything. 

The  Ancient's  bones  felt  like  the  backbone  of 
a  scarecrow  in  a  frozen  field  as  he  and  his  unit 
marched  into  St.  J.,  a  long  draughty  village,  with 
a  long  uncompromising  church  without  anything 
(chapel,  transept,  buttress)  to  break  its  red- 
brick length. 

Our  first  billet  was  in  the  school,  and  there  we 
sat  down  to  supper  at  the  children's  desks. 
When  your  supper  is  chiefly  soup,  a  desk  of 
somewhat  acute  angle  makes  a  queer  dinner- 
table  and  your  lap  is  likely  to  get  as  much  as 
your  mouth. 

But  in  the  village  was  a  Convent,  and  in  the 
Convent  were  nuns,  and  the  birds  of  the  air 
carried  the  matter.  Prelates  are  rarer  birds  in 
northern  France  and  in  all  Flanders  than  that 
other  bird  that  carries  matters.  The  nuns  were 
gravely  scandalized  to  hear  talk  of  prelates 
lapping  up  soup  out  of  preciptious  soup-plates 
in  school  class-rooms ;  and  a  deputation  came 
to  see. 

"  Ma  Soeur"  saw  and  was  more  deeply  shocked 
than  ever. 


224  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

**  This,"  said  she,  as  though  quelling  a  revolu- 
tion, **  must  cease." 

"  I  cannot  possibly  go  to  the  Convent  alone," 
protested  the  victim  of  the  revolution,  ''  all  the 
officers  must  be  together. ' ' 

* '  You  all  come, ' '  quoth  Ma  Soeur.  And  we  all 
went. 

The  Convent  was  called  the  Maison  St.  Joseph 
and  proved  to  be  very  big — nearly  a  tenth  of  the 
size  of  the  smallest  nun's  heart.  All  of  us  were 
ordered  there,  soldiers  and  all.  As  for  the  officers 
we  were  given  a  large  airy  parlour  for  living- 
room,  where  we  could  move  about,  write  letters 
conveniently,  and  eat  our  meals  in  extreme  com- 
fort. Chutney  fairly  blushed  when  a  white 
table-cloth  was  laid  by  a  nun  in  a  white 
cornette,  and  awe  settled  on  us  all  when  the 
nun  (herself  unmoved)  brought  a  dinner-napkin 
for  each  officer.  Leo  XIII.  and  Pius  X.  looked 
down  upon  us  from  the  walls  with  blandest 
tolerance. 

'*  Ma  Soeur,"  observed  the  nun  with  the 
napkins,  "hopes  the  officers  will  smoke  when 
they  wish." 

*'  Ask  her,"  murmured  Chutney  in  the  An- 
cient 's  ear,  * '  if  we  may  play  bridge. ' ' 

The  Commanding  Officer  frowned,  and  was 
beginning  a  chill  rebuke  of  Chutney 's  presump- 


SILENCE  225 

tion,  but  the  little  nun  instantly  declared  that 
there  could  be  no  possible  objection. 

Presently  Ma  Sosur  looked  in  to  endorse  these 
permissions  and  see  if  we  were  comfortable. 

''  Only,"  said  she,  ''I  should  be  grateful  if  the 
officers  would  go  up  to  their  rooms  at  nine 
o  'clock. ' ' 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  CO.,  "  you  will  leave 
this  room  every  night  at  8.45." 

"  No,  sir,"  quoth  the  spoiled  Ancient,  **Ma 
Soeur  says  8.60." 

Afterwards  the  CO.  gave  a  little  exhortation. 
[At  the  beginning  of  the  campaign  his  nose  had 
had  an  habitual  tilt,  eloquent  of  criticism,  when- 
ever there  was  allusion  to  the  Catholic  Church.] 
"  Kemember,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  ''  that,  by 
the  great  kindness  and  courtesy  of  these  holy 
ladies,  you  are  their  guests.  A  lot  of  officers 
are  odd  enough  guests  for  such  a  house:  and 
think  how  easily  we  may  put  them  out  more  than 
our  presence  itself  must  put  them  out.  Take 
care  that  in  everything  you  remember  where  you 
are,  and  in  what  sort  of  house. ' ' 

I  am  sure  it  was  a  very  kindly  and  respectful- 
ly meant  little  exhortation :  and  equally  sure  that 
none  of  those  who  carefully  and  respectfully 
listened  to  it  had  the  least  need  of  any  such 
reminder.    Everywhere  in  France  I  heard  the 


226  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

same  word  used  of  the  English  troops  and  their 
officers  by  the  French  clergy  and  the  French 
nuns,  **  Ces  hons  Anglais." 

''  Sir,"  declared  the  Ancient  to  his  CO.  after- 
wards, * '  I  am  sure  there  is  not  a  nun  in  France 
who  would  not  welcome  the  English  who  are 
come  to  stand  beside  their  own  soldiers  in  this 
war. '  * 

And  as  the  days  went  on  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  Sisters  of  Charity  at  St.  J.  were  not 
less  contented  with  their  military  guests  than 
their  guests  were  with  their  open-hearted 
welcome. 

We  were  given  excellent  beds,  and  some  of  us 
bedrooms  to  ourselves.  Tlie  Ancient  had  two 
beds  in  his  room,  and  after  not  having  seen  one 
for  so  long  it  seemed  a  wasted  opportunity  not 
to  be  able  to  occupy  both.  The  hospitality  of 
the  nuns  provided  even  a  night-cap — so  ample 
that  it  must  have  been  knitted  for  a  bishop.  In 
the  room  there  was  also  a  stove,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  earnest  protests  that  he  did  not  want  it 
lighted,  the  Ancient,  on  going  up  to  bed,  found 
it  literally  red-hot  all  over.  Shutters,  blinds  and 
curtains  were  all  drawn  close,  and  the  Ancient 
hurriedly  prayed  to  the  Three  Holy  Children  for 
guidance  in  his  emergency.  For  the  first  time 
since  it  had  begun  to  blow  he  began  to  think  of 


SILENCE  227 

coming  to  terms  with  the  ill-conditioned  ■wind 
outside. 

Even  the  Ancient's  servant  had  been  thought 
of.    He  came  tapping  at  the  door  now. 

''  Sir,"  said  he,  wide-eyed,  *'  the  nuns  have 
had  a  bed  made  up  for  me,  in  a  bedstead,  in  a 
room :  all  to  myself.    Had  I  better  sleep  in  it  ?'* 

''Why  not  ?" 

"  Well.  It  seems  such  neck.  And  it  might 
breed  jealousness,  if  the  fellows  knew.  Only, 
of  course,  it's  just  along  of  me  being  your 
servant. ' ' 

''  Well,  go  to  bed,  and  don't  tell  the  other 
fellows. ' ' 

From  St.  J.,  we  could  walk  to  B.,  and  did  so, 
where  the  Ancient  paid  a  surprise  visit  to  the 
Maison  des  Alienes  and  the  little  Aumonier.  He 
opened  the  door  himself,  with  a  finger  in  his 
breviary,  but  he  instantly  called  loudly  for 
]\Iarie,  who  came  running  from  the  kitchen, 
armed  with  a  casserole,  fully  convinced  that  the 
Germans  had  come  back.  Finding  how  matters 
stood,  she  looked  so  much  disposed  to  pat  the 
Ancient's  back  with  her  casserole  that  he  could 
only  hope  it  was  cool  and  empty. 

On  another  afternoon  we  walked  to  the  Mont 
des  Oats,  a  place  some  four  or  five  miles  from 
St.  J.    A  very  windy  ridge,  visible  far  and  wide, 


228  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

was  the  Mont  des  Cats,  and  somehow  the  look  of 
it  made  the  Ancient  think  of  Wuthering  Heights. 

**  Do  take  us  there,"  some  of  our  officers 
begged  of  the  Ancient,  ''  on  the  top  of  the  hill 
there's  a  huge  monastery.  And  a  German 
Prince — of  Hesse-Something — was  killed  there 
ten  days  ago:  there  was  fighting  all  round  the 
place.  The  monks  buried  him.  But  fourteen 
Germans  came  in  the  night,  a  few  days  after- 
wards, and  dug  him  up  and  stole  him.  Do  take 
us  to  see  the  monastery." 

Stern,  the  New  Zealander,  and  Chutney,  with 
the  Ancient,  made  up  the  party.  It  was  a 
pleasant  walk,  wintry,  but  through  rather  pretty 
ever-rising  frozen  fields.  On  the  way  Chutney 
came  to  the  Ancient's  side  and  said: 

' '  Tell  us  what  it  means — would  you  mind  1 — > 
being  a  Cistercian." 

Nature  and  youth  and  high  spirits  were  for 
ever  insisting  on  the  lad's  being  perky:  he  was 
all  quips  and  laughter.  But  something  else — 
a  very  sweet  and  clear  heart — made  him  gentle, 
and  oddly  meek  at  times.  And  he  had  the 
rather  rare  grace  of  being  singularly  ready  to 
respect  what  he  did  not  yet  understand. 

*'You  see,"  he  said,  ^'I  don't  know  anything 
about  monks.    Perhaps  the  others  do." 

"Do  you?" 


SILENCE  229 

'*  Not  I,"  said  Stern  and  our  New  Zealander. 

**  Well,  it  isn't  very  easy  to  explain,  in  a  few 
words,  to  three  fellows  like  you,  what  Cistercians 
are ;  what  monks  are  for.  There  are  even  some 
of  our  own  people,  nowadays,  who  are  so  shallow, 
and  so  unfortunately  influenced  by  the  air  they 
breathe  in  such  a  place,  say,  as  London,  who  do 
not  appreciate  monks,  and  wonder  if  they  are 
not  out  of  date.  If  God  is  out  of  date  (as  the 
air  those  men,  of  whom  I  speak,  breathe,  thinks 
He  is)  then  monks  are  out  of  date  too.  Their 
reasonableness  depends  on  His  existence,  and 
the  reality  of  His  claims.  They  are  just  for  God. 
They  do  not  fly  to  philanthropy  to  excuse  them- 
selves. First  of  all  I  must  explain  that  our 
Church  has  always  vehemently  defended  the 
thing  we  call  Vocation — that  every  man,  among 
his  other  liberties,  has  the  inborn  right  to  follow 
his  own  special  and  particular  vocation.  Most 
men  sooner  or  later  have  the  vocation  (among 
other  things)  to  marry,  and  so  help  to  carry  on 
the  world.  But  we  deny  that  every  man  on 
earth  has  that  particular  vocation.  A  million 
have  it,  there  is  one  man  in  the  next  million  who 
has  not: — In  the  beginning  of  the  Church  there 
were  men  who  felt  themselves  so  out  of  tune 
with  what  we  call  the  world,  the  social  bustle  of 
life  around  them,  that  they  went  out  from  it, 


230  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

carrying  nothing  of  it  with  them,  into  the  wilder- 
ness— as  the  Baptist  had  done,  and  many  of  the 
holy  Hebrew  race  before  him.  They  lived  any- 
where, in  holes  of  the  rocks  in  shallow  penthouse 
lairs  with  the  jutting,  scooped  out,  Nile-bank  for 
roof.  They  scratched  up  the  earth  around  their 
caves  or  wattled  huts,  and  grew  such  coarse  pulse 
as  would  come,  for  their  food.  And  always,  all 
day  long,  and  half  night  long  too  (often  for  whole 
nights),  they  gave  themselves  up  to  tryst  with 
Him  from  whom  we  fly.  Did  you  ever  hear 
this!— 


"  '  I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 
I  fled  Him  down  the  arches  of  the  years; 
I  fled  Him  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 
Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  midst  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped; 
And  shot  precipated 

Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 
From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed  after. 
***** 

For  though  I  knew  His  love  who  followed 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 

Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  nought  beside.' 


**  Most  of  US  have  always  that  dread  (and 
guard  against  it)  of  being  like  Peter,  James  and 
John  who,  seeing  Him  revealed  on  the  mountain, 
came  down  seeing  nothing  else  nisi  solum  Jeswm: 
the  terror  lest,  once  giving  God  the  inch  we 
could  spare,  He  should  take  the  whole  ell  of  us. 


SILENCE  231 

We  think  Infinity  is  bleak,  even  that  of  Infinite 
Love.  So  huge  that  it  must  burst  our  heart  if 
we  let  it  in :  and  we  turn  to  little  things  as  being 
near  and  neighbourly.  And  perhaps  some  of  us 
like  to  be  just  a  little  above  our  company  (not 
so  high  above  as  to  be  beyond  appreciation)  and 
it  damps  us  to  think  of  an  intimacy  wherein 
every  glance  at  our  Friend  would  threaten  con- 
trast, and  reproach  of  our  inferiority.  The 
solitaries  of  whom  I  speak  fled  to  that  from 
which  we  fly.  Their  object  was  to  be  overtaken 
by  Him  the  sound  of  whose  following  frightens 
us.  They  hungrily  went  to  learn  that  which  we 
are  in  hourly  fear  of  knowing — God  and  His 
claims.  You  and  I — how  little  can  we  know 
each  other,  though  we  have  each  other's  faces 
to  see,  voices  to  hear,  gestures  to  note,  acts  to 
witness  ?  Can  one  know  God,  whose  Face  you 
and  I  never  saw,  whose  words  never  fell  in  our 
ears,  whose  gesture  is  the  vast  creation,  and 
His  action  the  ordered  obedience  of  the  universe? 
To  that  knowledge  they  set  themselves.  He  was 
their  school,  their  schoolmaster,  and  their  lesson. 
Him  only — that  was  their  subject :  they  were  not 
ashamed  to  be  men  of  one  book,  seeing  that  in 
its  ages  was  everything.  They  gave  themselves 
to  what  we  call  contemplation  as  a  life-work. 
Not  a  new-fangled  notion  in  Christianity,  nor 


232  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

even  a  discovery  of  Christianity,  for  the  great, 
ancient  religions  of  the  east  all  have  it,  and  had 
it  long  before  Christianity  was  born  in  Jewry. 
The  greatest  sage  in  the  east  has  always  been, 
and  still  is,  he  who  holds  it  no  waste  to  go  out 
into  the  loneliness  where  the  infinite  voice  can  be 
heard,  and  let  his  life's  achievement  be  nothing 
more  than  an  eavesdropping  at  Divine  Wisdom. 

**  Well,  among  the  solitaries  there  would  often 
be  a  man  of  special  character,  of  peculiar  quality, 
and  him  the  others  would  take  for  leader.  Under 
his  presidency,  or  abbacy,  the  scattered  group 
would  be  unified  into  a  community.  The 
solitary  was  still  to  be  found,  remaining  simply 
a  hermit.  The  united  solitaries  were  monks. 
And  as  all  union  presently  implies  law,  though 
ever  so  voluntarily  accepted,  each  community 
came  to  have  some  sort  of  rule — if  at  first  it 
came  to  no  more  than  the  recognition  of  special 
hours  for  special  duties  and  services.  As  the 
ages  slowly  passed,  the  monastic  idea  grew,  and 
certain  great  exponents  and  masters  of  it  arose, 
the  greatest  St.  Benedict,  who  fashioned  out  of 
ancient  and  new  material  the  vast  Benedictine 
fortress,  still  impregnable. 

* '  Please  remember  how  our  Church  insists  on 
liberty  of  vocation :  some  Orders  arose  with  one 
special   vocation    (plus    the    main   vocation    to 


SILENCE  233 

monasticism)  —  education,  tending  sick  and 
wounded,  redemption  of  captives,  preaching,  a 
thousand  things,  as  changing  life  produced  new 
needs.  No  one  need  be  a  monk:  no  one  need 
be  this  or  that  sort  of  monk.  But  the  Church 
insists  that  he  who  chooses  to  seek  God  along 
that  road  must  have  it  open  to  him. 

*'  The  monks  you  are  coming  to  see  are  pure 
contemplatives — and  so  an  Order  of  much  rarer 
vocation  now  than  the  Orders  which  superadd 
special  activities.  For  a  thousand  ordinary 
priests  (what  we  call  secular  priests)  there  may 
not  be  one  monk  of  any  sort :  among  ten  thousand 
monks  there  may  not  be  one  Cistercian :  only  the 
Church  insists  that  that  one  must  be  free  to  be 
the  thing  to  which  he  believes  God  beckons  him. 
No  republic  has  ever  held  so  valiantly  to  the 
individual  liberties  as  the  great  monarchy  of  the 
Catholic  Church — a  Kingdom  in  the  universe, 
a  Vice-royalty  in  this  far  province  of  earth. 

*'  The  Cistercian's  life  is  very  austere.  He 
eats  no  meat,  nor  eggs ;  butter,  cheese,  milk,  only 
at  certain  seasons.  He  wears  no  linen.  He 
toils  hard  in  the  field.  He  rises  in  the  coldest 
middle  of  the  night  and  makes  worship  with  his 
brethren  in  choir.  And  he  keeps  perpetual 
silence.  While  the  world  chatters,  he  thinks — • 
of  God.    No  doubt  a  monk  will  show  us  over  the 


234  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

monastery:  lie  may  speak  to  us  while  doing  it. 
The  Abbot  may  speak  to  his  monks  when  any 
need  for  a  spoken  direction  arises :  and  the  monk, 
needing  such,  may  ask  it  of  him.  The  master 
of  novices  speaks  to  them,  as  need  is  to  teach 
them  their  way  of  life,  they  to  him  in  any  doubt 
of  it.    But  the  life  of  the  monastery  is  silent." 

We  had  all  along  been  in  sight  of  the  monas- 
tery; and,  while  the  Ancient  tried  to  explain  its 
meaning,  forgetting  many  points  that  should 
have  been  remembered,  marring  many  by  haste 
and  shyness  and  fear  of  too  intolerable  a  prolix- 
ity, his  young  listeners  (especially  the  youngest) 
often  held  their  eyes  upon  its  long  roofs,  and 
sharp  turrets ;  high  up  there  against  the  cold  sky- 
line it  had  in  its  huge  bulk  something  of  the  air 
of  a  f ortalice — a  strong  Castle  of  God,  procalim- 
ing  itself  an  outpost. 

*'  There  is  something  I  should  like  to  add," 
said  the  Ancient, ''  since  you  listen  so  patiently." 
[Chutney  shook  his  head,  not  protesting  im- 
patience or  repudiation.]  "  Here  it  is.  In  all 
Christendom  no  race  of  men  has  been  more 
numerous  than  that  which  tills  the  soil.  To 
some  they  seem  outcast  of  the  social  life,  not 
amused  by  the  variety  and  episode  of  burgher 
life ;  but,  anyway,  leading  lives  of  great  monot- 
ony, with  backs  bent,  and  eyes  turned  mostly 


SILENCE  235 

downward,  towards  that  dust  whence  we  all 
come,  and  whither  we  all  return.  Can  you  not 
imagine  that  to  every  husbandman  in  our 
Church  it  must  be  a  gracious  and  uplifting  thing 
to  remember  such  a  place  as  we  see  yonder  ?  Must 
not  its  sane  and  noble  infection  catch  him  ? 
*  There,'  thinks  he,  *  are  husbandmen  like  me  ? 
Their  life  of  toil  in  furrow  and  farmstead  is 
mine.  They  see  no  variation  but  that  of  the  sea- 
sons, no  more  than  I :  monotony  of  labour  is  their 
lot,  as  it  is  mine :  looking  downward,  then,  as  I 
delve,  can  I  not  be  seeing  Heaven  as  they,  and 
growing  hourly  more  at  home  (like  them)  with 
my  one  neighbour  God?'  As  he  trudges  home- 
ward through  the  misty  dusk,  and  hears  their 
bell  ring  out  on  the  frosty  air,  must  he  not  say, 
'  I  to  my  hard-earned  frugal  meal,  to  my  hearth, 
and  to  my  rest:  they,  empty-bellied,  to  their 
prayer  and  praise,  their  brief  hard  repose,  and 
then  their  vigil  with  the  Great  Sentinel  of  all,' 
and  must  he  not  join  his  dumb  heart  in  praise 
with  theirs  ?  Must  not  his  empty  fields  seem  less 
lonely  I  And  one  last  thing  before  we  go  up  and 
knock  at  that  door.  A  thing  I  have  often  tried 
to  say  ...  in  the  Catholic  Church  there  is  a  cer- 
tain thing,  what  I  call  a  quality,  that  arrests 
every  open-eyed  man  who  scans  her.  You  have 
come  to  see  it,  since  you  have  been  forced  to  look 


236  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

at  her  here  in  France.  It  is  that  quality  that 
preaches  louder  than  any  preacher  in  any  pulpit. 
You,  at  least,  Martin,  I  know  have  heard  its  call. 
Polemics,  controversy,  special  pleading,  would 
simply  bore  you,  and  set  all  your  opposition  alert 
on  guard.  But  that  quality  arrests  you;  and 
because  it  is  a  fact,  patent  in  itself,  it  impresses 
you  more  than  any  assertion  of  it  could.  Well, 
that  quality  is  one  of  the  heirlooms  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  own 
children;  and  lives  like  those  of  these  monks 
maintain  its  store  and  add  to  it  in  every  age." 

It  was  snowing  fast  now,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
there  wavered  a  white  arras  between  us  and  the 
monastery,  now  quite  near. 

When  we  rang  at  the  outer  gate  there  was  a 
clanging  echo,  somewhat  bleak  and  empty- 
sounding.  Presently  the  door  opened  and  we 
were  taken  along  vaulted,  chill  corridors  of  stone, 
to  a  stone  parlour,  with  no  ornament  but  the 
crucifix. 

The  three  young  men  seemed  to  catch  the 
Cistercian  infection  and  sat  wordless.  After  a 
few  minutes  delay,  a  monk  entered;  he  only 
bowed,  without  speaking,  to  the  four  strangers ; 
then  the  Ancient  asked  permission  to  see  the 
abbey.  The  monk  bowed  again,  and  turned  to 
show  us  put  into  the  corridors,  up  stone  steps, 


SILENCE  237 

into  a  fine  cloister.  Throughout  he  only  spoke 
in  answer  to  a  question,  and  then  briefly,  though 
not  curtly.  He  was  courteous,  but  grave :  aloof, 
not  austere,  though  nearly;  silence  was  not 
merely  his  habit  but  his  atmosphere,  and  he 
breathed  it,  expiring  it  as  well  as  inhaling: 
silence  was  not  his  prison  but  his  freedom;  he 
escaped  out  of  talk  into  it  whenever  his  captors 
let  him  go  . 

It  was  an  immense  place. 

We  saw  the  refectory,  vast  and  fine,  with  the 
fineness  of  complete  simplicity,  the  absence  of  all 
ornament  or  superfluity.  On  the  boards  were 
laid  out  spoons,  forks,  mugs,  trenchers,  for  the 
next  meal. 

'*  When  will  it  be  ?"  w^hispered  Chutney. 
* '  Ask  him. ' ' 

The  Ancient  asked. 

*'  To-morrow.    At  midday.'* 

(Chutney  rubbed  his  nose.) 

We  saw  the  chapter-house.  And  the  dormi- 
tories— vast  and  very  cold,  but  airy  and  intensely 
clean.  And  the  kitchens,  vast  ("  and  unsugges- 
tive  of  grub,"  whispered  Chutney).  And  the 
immense,  most  beautiful  church. 

Here  our  monk  pointed  to  the  floor,  where  a 
slab  recorded  that  the  Drawing  Master  of  the 
Princesses,  daughters  of  King  George  III.  of 


238  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

England,  lay  beneath,  and  had  left  his  life's 
earnings  towards  the  building  of  this  fane. 

Three  monks  were  praying  in  the  church. 
One  out  on  the  pavement;  a  very  tall  man  evi- 
dently, with  a  noble  face.  He  never  glanced  a/fc 
us,  and  we  hardly  presumed  to  do  more  than 
glance  at  him. 

''  I  never,"  said  Chutney  afterwards,  ''  saw 
a  man  pray  like  that.  It  swallowed  him 
up." 

Out  in  the  cloister  our  monk  told  us  that  it 
,was  the  Abbot. 

1    *'  He    does    not,    then,"    said    the    Ancient, 
**  always  wear  the  cross."* 

"  He  wears  it,"  said  the  monk,  *' always." 

We  saw  the  library.  A  fine,  panelled  room, 
where  nearly  a  dozen  monks  were  reading:  the 
light  was  rather  dim  in  there  now :  and  the  white 
figures,  dotted  here  and  there,  gave  a  singular 
impression  of  stillness :  outside  there  was  always 
the  tedious  iteration  of  the  war's  pulse,  the 
sullen,  thick,  muffled,  beating  of  the  guns.  Not 
one  of  the  monks  so  much  as  raised  his  head 
to  see  who  entered.  To  ourselves  our  coming 
there  seemed  as  impertinent  to  their  life  as  the 
fretful  fuming  of  the  war  down  there  in  the 
plains. 

^  Abbots,  like  bishops,  wear  the  pectoral  cross. 


SILENCE  239 

*'  Have  any  of  your  monks  gone  away  as 
chaplains!"  asked  the  Ancient,  when  we  were 
all  outside  in  the  cloister. 

*'  Some  have  gone  as  soldiers.  They  are  in 
the  trenches." 

^'  Ask  him,"  begged  Chutney,  ''  about  the 
German  prince." 

The  Ancient  asked,  repeating  the  legend  of  the 
prince's  abduction  after  death,  and  then  only 
our  monk  smiled. 

''  A  prince  of  Hesse  was  killed  here,  two  weeks 
ago.  He  was  never  buried  here.  His  officers 
took  him  away  at  once.  Others  were  killed  here 
at  the  same  time — Germans,  and  French.  These 
we  buried  here.    Come  and  see." 

He  led  us  out  into  the  garden — a  large  plateau 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  the  abbey  and  its 
workshops. 

' '  Here, ' '  said  our  monk. 

There  was  a  sort  of  raised  mound,  perhaps 
thirty  feet  long  and  ten  broad :  already  very  neat, 
and  covered  with  smooth  sods.  About  a  dozen 
and  a  half  of  wooden  crosses. 

''  Germans  and  French  together  ?" 

''  In  pace,"  said  the  monk,  bowing,  with  each 
hand  in  the  opposite  sleeve. 

No  one  spoke:  and  the  red  sun  was  slipping 
down  behind  the  far,  flat  horizon  far  beneath  us. 


240  FREJNICH  WINDOWS. 

The  snow  had  all  ceased,  and  the  night  came  on 
clear  and  hard. 

**  We  must  pray,"  whispered  the  monk  at  last, 
*'  for  all.    We  cannot  separate  them." 

**  Absif 

We  went  straight  thence  to  the  gate,  where 
he  turned  to  leave  us. 

"  Shake  hands  with  them  all,"  begged  the 
Ancient  in  his  ear,  "  they  are  all  Protestants 
and  never  saw  a  Cistercian  before." 

He  drew  his  cold  hands  from  his  sleeves  and 
immediately  shook  hands  with  each — not  coldly. 

**  I  suppose,"  said  the  lad  Chutney,  "  we  shall 
never  see  each  other  again." 

The  monk  smiled  and  lifted  a  pointing  finger 
towards  the  sky. 

**  Well,"  said  Chutney,  as  we  walked  quickly 
down  the  frozen  slope  on  our  homeward  way, 
*'  one  learns  a  lot." 


XIV 


**  One  learns  a  lot,"  said  Chutney,  as  we  walked 
down  the  hill;  the  frozen  stubble,  clogged  with 
new  snow,  hidden,  but  still  stiff  enough  to  crackle 
a  little  as  it  broke  under  our  feet.  Eh,  how  cold 
one's  feet  were — always  were  !  *'  Cold  hands, 
warm  heart;"  if  the  saying  went  "  Cold  feet, 
warm  heart  ' '  the  poor  Ancient 's  old  heart  must 
have  been  warm  enough  in  those  days. 

*'  Well,  one  learns  a  lot,"  said  Chutney,  and 
the  lad  came  closer  to  his  friend's  side  and, 
taking  his  arm,  pressed  it.  His  hands  should 
have  been  death-chill,  according  to  the  proverb. 

Stern  nodded,  and  the  New  Zealander  nodded, 
but  neither  spoke. 

"  Tell  us  things,"  begged  Chutney.  But  the 
7  'Tr'ont  held  his  peace.  Things,  thought  he, 
]ir.;l  best  be  left  to  tell  themselves.  They  were, 
he  thought,  telling  themselves;  why  should  he 
interrupt  ?    The  monastery  on  the  bleak  ridge 

241 


242  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

(one  huge  black  bulk  now,  with  black  turrets, 
and  the  pallid  yellow  of  the  sky  behind,  where 
sunset  had  been)  was  telling  things  in  a  poignant 
Cistercian  silence. 

Before  the  last  wan  relics  of  the  day  were 
huddled  behind  night's  curtain  the  full  moon 
was  casting  soft  grey  shadows,  from  every  tree 
,and  hop-hole,  over  the  glistening  white  slopes. 
It  was  all  as  silent  as  a  great  mortuary.  St. 
Bernard  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  laid  his 
finger  on  the  lips  of  the  very  guns.  And  all  the 
silence  listened,  and  to  every  listener  comes  the 
Word. 

Because  these  papers  are,  in  their  most  or- 
dered sequence  but  parentheses,  and  have  often 
followed  no  sequence  at  all,  I  may  put  in  here 
something  that  happened  several  months  later. 

The  Ancient  was  in  Normandy.  The  day  be- 
fore he  had  been  to  seek  out  the  village-home 
of  the  soldier  farm-lad,  Guilbert,  of  which  visit 
he  has  spoken  long  ago.  After  his  talk  with 
Guilbert 's  mother,  and  Guilbert 's  sister,  and  the 
lad's  small  nephew  and  niece,  he  had  come  out 
into  the  rather  wistful  dusk  of  a  dun  swift-fall- 
ing evening;  and  in  a  minute  or  two  a  young 
Belgian  soldier  overtook  him. 

**  Bon  soir.  Monsieur." 

**  Bon  soir,  camarade.*' 


CHUTNEY 'S  MA JOEITY  243 

**  Eh  !    Vous  etes  done  aussi  militaire  V 

''  Militaire  et  pretre,  camarade." 

*'  Tiens  !    Aumonier  alors  1    Bon." 

Ranged  alongside  he  kept  silence  a  few  steps 
and  then — 

*'  While  you  were  in  there  Id  has/'  with  a  jerk 
of  the  head  sideways  and  backward  over  his 
shoulder,  '*  I  watched.  I  stood  outside  and 
watched,  through  the  window.  Indiscret,  pent- 
etre  V 

**  Ca  depend." 

*  *  Eh  !    Why  I  watched,  it  was  for  no  harm. ' ' 

*'  So  I  guessed.    Why  then  ?" 

"  I  caught  a  glimpse,  in  passing;  and  I  had  to 
come  back  and  look  more.  That  was  a  home  in 
there :  en  f amille,  vous  savez  I  That  was  why  I 
watched.     J 'avals  faim." 

He  was  a  stoutish  youth,  and  well  fed.  It 
wasn't  bread-hunger. 

*'  Nostalgic  %'"> 

''  C'est  Qa,"  said  the  recruit.  And  he  shook 
his  head  with  the  staccato,  sharp,  gesture  of  the 
head  in  its  socket  which  so  often  expresses  the 
sentiment  of  the  unsentimental. 

*'  One  is  far  from  home  here."  He  went  on, 
**  You  and  I — you  English :  me  Belgian — we  are 
far  from  ours.  That  was  why  I  watched.  I 
have  often  passed  the  big  hotel  windows,  and  I 


244  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

don't  want  to  watch;  though  inside  one  can  see 
the  Messieurs  dining  at  pretty  tables,  and  there 
are  silver,  and  flowers;  and  you  can  see  them 
laughing.  And  it  is  like  that  when  one  passes 
the  big  houses.  You  could  often  see  in  through 
the  persiennes.  I  have  looked,  yes.  But  a  peep 
is  enough.  'Not  my  world,  Jacques,'  think 
I,  and  go  on:  not  home-sick.  To  me  that  is 
nothing.  But  yonder  "  (and  again  came  the 
backward  jerk  of  the  head  that  had  been  a  little 
bent).  "  L5.  bas.  That  was  like  mine.  My 
world.  Poor  folks  en  famille.  So  I  watched: 
and  when  you  came  out  I  followed — to  get  nearer 
to  it.  Nostalgic!  Oui  c'est  Qa;  Monsieur 
I'Aumonier;  dur  k  supporter." 

**  Tell  me  then,  about  yours — les  votres.  It 
was  to  tell  them  about  their  lad,  whom  I  had 
soigne  a  little  when  he  was  wounded,  that  I 
went." 

So  he  told ;  not  much — there  was  no  great  mat- 
ter to  tell,  though  plenty  to  understand — and  the 
telling  comforted  him. 

*'  One  could  not  tell  it,"  he  ended,  **  to  anyone 
like  an  officer  or  a  fine  person.  But  priests — • 
they  are  like  us ;  of  the  people.    Eh  I" 

**  Yes:  always,  of  the  people." 

**  C'est  Qa." 

**  But  one  should  not,  perhaps,  dislike  those 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJOEITY  245 

of  another  class  ?     Not    manly    that,    do    you 
find  ?" 

*'  Eh  non  !  But  the  moon  up  there,  I  don't 
dislike  it — comprenez  vous?  It's  up  there; 
we're  down  here,  you  and  I.    Eh  ?" 

'^  Certainly,"  said  the  Ancient,  laughing, 
*'  though  we've  got  to  get  higher  up  there  than 
the  moon. ' ' 

*'  Sans  doute,"  agreed  the  recruit  genially 
accepting  the  shy  parable.  *'Bien  loin,  quand 
meme,  eh  1  Une  jolie  petite  promenade,  d'ici 
jusque  la." 

Well,  that  was  on  the  day  before. 

On  this  afternoon,  an  afternoon  of  indolent 
humid  sunshine,  and  soft  moist  airs,  with  a  timid 
promise  of  spring  in  it  (though  the  trees  were 
still  clad  only  in  their  delicate  black  winter  lace 
against  a  coldish  blue  sky)  came  the  Ancient  to 
Arques — Arques  la  Bataille,  as  it  has  been  called 
since  Henry  of  Navarre  won,  hard  by,  the  victory 
that  was  to  make  him  Henry  of  France. 

It  was  a  very  odd  thing  to  be  there,  a  vagrant 
of  the  war,  wandering  alone  through  the  vast 
ruins  of  the  castle  whence  his  forefather  had  one 
morning  ridden  forth  for  England,  never  to  come 
back.  The  place  was  so  lovely  that  it  seemed 
strange  that  anyone  leaving  it  could  be  content 
never  to  come  back.    Perhaps  the  other  vagrant 


246  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

adventurer,  like  the  soldier  yesterday,  had  had 
nostalgic,  and  from  Devonshire  felt  his  heart- 
strings tugging,  tugging  towards  the  home 
among  these  Norman  dales  where  he  had  been  a 
lad.  We  do  not  hear  if  those  grabbing  courtiers 
and  cousins  of  the  Base-born  brought  their 
mothers  with  them.  The  Ancient  sat  on  the 
ruined  drawbridge  and  looked  up  at  the  narrow 
window  of  the  tower  above  it,  picturing  a  Nor- 
man mother's  face  there  as  her  lad  gave  his  back 
to  her,  to  go  and  snatch  lands  from  peaceful 
Saxon  Thanes  who  had  done  him  never  a  harm. 
Eh,  what  a  wistful  face,  what  tremulous  brave 
lips,  what  love-hungry  ears :  what  a  standard  of 
renunciation  the  little  waving  rag  of  white  linen 
— the  Ancient  hoped  that  the  light-hearted  ad- 
venturer had  grace  enough  to  turn  in  his  saddle 
and  signal  back  fidelity. 

An  immense  space  do  the  ruins  cover :  and  all 
around  them  a  wide,  very  deep  moat,  dry  now, 
and  one  supposes  always  dry.  From  the  further 
lip  of  the  moat  are  exquisite  views  on  every  side. 
On  one,  the  broad  and  stately  valley,  meads  and 
river,  woodland  and  opposing  hill.  At  the  foot 
of  the  steep,  the  shining  white  town,  and  the 
shining  white  church.  Backward  of  the  fortalice 
a  net  of  deep  dales,  where  rich  pasture  and  rich 
copse  strive  in  peacefuUest  combat  for  beauty. 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  247 

Down  into  one  of  these  twisting,  steeply  tilted 
valleys  clambered  the  Ancient,  setting  himself 
a  certain  point  of  high  woodland  as  his  point  of 
attainment.  There  arrived,  he  w^ould  go  no 
further,  but  sit  and  read.  An  English  newspaper 
unopened,  a  French  volume  of  ''  Memoires 
Intimes  "  half  read,  were  under  his  arm:  a 
singular  contrast  those  two  documents.  One  a 
gasp  of  announcement:  as  though  one  should 
stick  his  sword  into  the  seething  stew  of  the  War- 
Pot  and  snatch  out  a  bit,  and  hold  it  up  to  brag 
about,  or  to  explain  why  it  was  not  bigger: 
terribly  hasty,  partial,  perhaps  incorrect,  but 
actual,  eager,  half -blind,  with  a  stumbling  sus- 
pense, as  a  man  running  who  can  scarce  see  for 
the  blood  in  his  eyes.  The  other,  the  French 
book,  stuffed  with  snippets,  all  detail,  all  pre- 
occupation with  indoor  matters  and  not  a  sus- 
picion of  a  great  outside  world  crying  Fudge! 
like  Mr.  Burchell.  Elsew^here  has  the  writer 
quoted  the  shrewd  judgment  of  him  who  found 
Thackeray's  "  Vanity  Fair  "  the  best  spiritual 
reading  he  knew:  let  him  read  the  Memoirs  of 
his  fellow-duke.  Let  anyone  who  would  taste 
how  sour  a  mean  worldliness  can  taste  in  the 
mouth  read  St.  Simon:  proud  reading,  I  should 
say,  for  a  republican  ashamed  of  petty  republican 
jostlings.    How  the  lean-eyed  jealous  courtier 


248  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

hates  the  King,  and  must  flutter  round  him,  and 
think,  think,  think  of  him  always.  The  sun  out- 
side, and  the  sane  wholesome  green  world  out- 
side, are  nothing  to  him;  the  Roi  Soleil  inside, 
and  his  fusty  bad-hearted  world  inside,  are 
everything  to  him.  The  favour  of  the  man  he 
dislikes  and  despises,  which  he  has  not,  and 
which  he  knows  he  will  never  get,  are  his  bread 
and  wine  to  hunger  for.  Faugh  !  what  a  devil's 
sacrament  !  Of  his  own  good  parts  he  is  much 
aware — and  content  to  let  them  run  to  a  rotten 
seed.  Decent,  he  is  well-pleased  to  breathe  an 
indecent  air ;  honest  enough  at  heart,  he  willingly 
neighbours  with  dishonesty:  till  he  does  not 
know  when  he  is  spiteful,  secret  slanderer,  blood- 
poisoned  with  the  disease  of  the  body  whereof 
he  insists  on  being  a  limb — or  some  trivial  un- 
regarded member.  .  .  . 

Down  the  steep  slope  of  short,  dry  down-grass 
clambered  the  Ancient,  and  St.  Simon  slipping 
from  under  his  arm  goes  skipping  down  before 
him.  A  wounded  soldier,  en  convalescence 
home  from  the  war,  with  one  eye  left,  stands  still 
in  the  road  below  to  pick  the  duke  up  and  restore 
him  to  his  owner.  He  has  a  crutch  also,  for  the 
bones  in  one  foot  are  shattered. 

**  In  a  hurry — like  the  book,  Monsieur  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,''  says  the  Ancient,  arriving,  and 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  249 

laughing.  '  *  But  once  you  go  downhill  you  can 't 
choose  your  own  pace,  or  exactly  where  you'll 
stop.    N'est-ce  pas  ?" 

''  Monsieur  est  philosophe  ?" 

'*  Pas  beaucoup.     Mais  experimente.  .  .  .'* 

''  Well,"  said  the  soldier,  squeezing  a  double 
smile  out  of  his  one  eye,  "  after  that — /  was 
going  down-hill:  home " 

' '  Home  is  up-hill, ' '  and  they  both  laughed. 

*'  Bon  !  But  now  I  will  turn  and  me  promener 
with  Monsieur  (if  he  permits  always).  It  is 
pretty  up  there,"  nodding  towards  the  crest  of 
the  road. 

''So  I  guessed.  I  was  going  there  to 
read." 

A  cart  came  by,  laden  with  logs,  and  the 
waggoner  (a  lad  whose  limbs  wanted  screwing 
up  like  neglected  fiddle-strings)  called  out  to  the 
soldier,  and  they  exchanged  a  dozen  words  in 
Norman  patois — not  the  prettiest  in  France. 

''  Eh  well,"  said  the  soldier  presently,  when 
the  cart  and  waggoner  had  gone  down  the  road. 
''  His  turn  will  come  soon.  He  won't  be  carting 
logs  much  longer.  I  used  to  do  that.  Now  I'm 
an  artilleur  and  one  of  my  eyes  is  peering  about 
under  the  ground  to  see  where  I  am.  He  shan't 
find  me  just  yet." 

*'  Esperons." 


250  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

*'Pas  de  luxe,  1^  has,"  observed  the  soldier, 
waving  his  crutch  towards  the  war. 

''  So  I  found." 

So  we  talked  of  our  small  experiences,  and,  as 
no  one  was  listening,  no  one  was  bored.  We 
talked  of  many  things.  He  asked  about  my 
book,  seeing  that  it  was  French.  Who  wrote  it, 
what  was  it  about  ?    Then — 

* '  Louis  XIV.,  he  was  very  small,  wasn  't  he  T ' 

*'  Uncommon  small.    Le  grand  Monarque." 

**  Eh,  mon  philosophe  ?  And  Napoleon — ^lit- 
tle too  ?" 

*'  About  up  to  there,"  and  the  Ancient  indi- 
cated, with  his  still  unopened  newspaper,  a  but- 
ton which  was  by  no  means  the  top  button  of 
the  artilleryman's  blackish-blue  jacket. 

**  Voila!  For  me  it  is  hopeless.  Those 
famous  persons  were  all  little  creatures.  I  am 
too  big — hors  concours." 

It  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him.  He  remained 
impregnably  cheerful. 

*'  Long  legs,"  suggested  the  Ancient,  **  are 
not  bad  for  marching — uphill," 

''  But  big  legs  have  big  bodies  to  carry — ^up- 
hill (Eh,  mon  philosophe,  je  vous  comprends 
bien;  vous  insinuez  quelqu'  allegorie).  And  my 
body,  to  me,  is  heavy  for  my  big  legs  to  carry — 
uphill." 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  251 

'*  Let  your  soul  help.  Make  it.  That's  what 
it's  for.  Say  to  her  '  Madame.  This  body  of 
mine  can't  carry  itself  and  you.  You'll  get  a 
spill  if  you  lie  asleep  up  there.  Be  so  good  as  to 
get  down  and  pull. '  ' ' 

So  they  talked:  the  huge,  gentle  lad  knowing 
well  that  it  was  a  sort  of  fencing,  and  liking  it ; 
not  disliking  it  if  he  got  a  little  thrust  near 
enough  to  the  heart  that  was  there  in  him. 

They  came  to  the  crest  of  the  road.  A  copse 
on  the  left,  and  a  quarry  in  front  where  an  old 
bent  peasant  was  loading  a  long  narrow  cart. 
To  the  right,  bulging  meadows  that  leant  out 
over  the  dale,  and  beyond  them  another  copse. 
At  the  top  a  road  full  of  mysterious  interest — 
because  the  Ancient  knew  he  should  never  walk 
along  it,  or  see  what  was  round  the  first  cor- 
ner. 

''  Now,"  said  the  soldier,  ''  Monsieur  wants 
to  read — and  look;  in  there  is  a  fallen  tree  cut 
down  by  some  Frenchman  (are  we  not  careful 
for  Monsieur,  we  other  Frenchmen  f)  for  Mon- 
sieur to  sit  upon.  As  for  me  I  will  go  on  up 
there,  and  round  by  another  way  that  I  know,  so 
that  Mon  Philosophe  may  not  have  to  see  me  go- 
ing downhill  home." 

He  held  out  his  big  hand,  and  his  smile  was 
very  kind :  in  his  one  eye  there  was  not  room  for 


252  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

it,  nor  even  on  his  mouth,  it  seemed  to  be  in  his 
hand  too. 

*'  Only  one  little  eye,"  he  said,  and  his  laugh 
was  only  his  smile  made  audible,  ^'  but  with  it 
I  shall  go  on  seeing  Monsieur,  mon  petit  Philo- 
sophe.     (No  offence — Napoleon  was  little  !    we 
settled  that,  n'est-ce  pas  !)     But  there  are  two 
ears  still,  and  they  shall  go  on  listening  to  all 
the  things  Monsieur  never  said.    I  am  not  en- 
tirely hete;  I  can  understand.    The  unsaid  things 
are  the  best  of  the  sermon  sometimes." 
*  *  But  it  is  you  who  preach. ' ' 
*'  Me  preach  !    I  do  not  even  practice." 
**  Both,  I  think.    To  me  your  one  eye  preaches, 
and  your  merry  limp.    I  also  have  been  listen- 
ing." 

So  he  went ;  and  the  Ancient  watched  him  till 
the  twist  of  the  road  hid  him.  He  whistled  Tip- 
perary  out  of  compliment,  thinking  it  perhaps 
our  Marseillaise.  At  the  corner  he  waved  his 
crutch  and  saluted,  and  the  crutch  itself  seemed 
part  of  his  smile. 

The  Ancient  went  into  the  copse  and  sat  down 
upon  the  fallen  tree.  Truant-thoughted  always, 
there  ran  into  his  mind,  not  the  words  (for  he 
has  an  untextual,  unquoting  memory)  but  the 
idea  in  the  words  of  a  delighful  American: 
**  Preachers  must  surely  be  in  great  danger  of 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  253 

perishing  for  lack  of  spiritual  instruction,  from 
only  hearing  themselves."  Ah,  but  did  not  the 
witty  American  forget  the  sermons  that  preach- 
ers are  always  meeting  in  the  lives  and  faces  of 
those  who  cross  their  daily  path  1 

One  cannot  learn  everything  at  once  or  from 
the  same  teacher,  nor  has  every  man  all  the 
gifts  of  God.  Those  he  has  (the  one  he  has,  if  it 
seems  to  us  that  he  has  only  one)  he  must  share 
[with  us  if  we  know  we  need  it. 

The  old  man's  cart  was  full,  and  he  had  led  it 
lumbering  do"\vn  the  road.  There  was  no  sound 
for  a  while;  then  came  the  rap-tap  of  a  wood- 
pecker. 

"  'The  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  elm 
tree,'  observed  Mrs.  Mould,"  thought  the  An- 
cient. ''  *  Ha,  ha,'  laughed  Mr.  Mould,  closing 
his  eyes  in  a  perfect  luxury,  *  we  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  from  you  again,  Mrs.  M.  Hollow  elm  tree, 
eh!  Ha,  ha.  .  .  .I've  seen  worse  than  that  in 
the  Sunday  papers,  my  love.'  How  Dickens 
revelled  in  undertakers  —  the  Moulds,  the 
Orams.  ..." 

So  the  Ancient  tore  open  his  newspaper  and 
fell  to  reading:  but  the  flutter  of  the  big  white 
leaves  sent  the  woodpecker  away,  and  there  was 
no  sound  at  all. 

The  Ancient  was  reading  of  the  Dardanelles; 


254  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

but  in  his  thoughts  Chutney  was  gently  moving, 
and  his  smile  looked  out  between  the  printed 
words.  On  the  night  which  was  the  last  before 
the  Ancient  left  the  unit,  just  as  he  was  begin- 
ning to  undress,  a  knock  had  come  to  his  door — 
in  his  bedroom  at  the  Convent  in  St.  J.,  and 
Chutney  came  in,  shy  and  not  merry. 

"  I  had  to  come  and  say  good-bye  alone,"  he 
said.  ''  I  hope  you  do  not  mind  ?  Dear  Mon- 
signor  !  I  wonder  if  you  realize  what  it  will  be 
here  without  you  ?  If  you  don't,  you're  the 
only  one  that  doesn't.  And  no  one  of  them  all 
will  miss  you  as  I  shall.  You  think  it  is  not  so. 
I  haven't  seen  half  as  much  of  you  as  some  of 
them:  but  not  because  I  didn't  want  to.  I'm 
not  so  clever  as  some  of  them.  I  couldn't  talk 
to  you  about  books  and  things;  and  I  didn't 
want  to  bore  you.  But,  dear  Monsignor,  all  my 
happiest  times  out  here  have  been  with  you. 
All.  And — not  one  of  them  loves  you  as  I  do — 
not  one." 

He  turned  quickly  to  the  door,  and  made  no 
pretence  of  doing  anything  else  with  his  fingers 
than  what  they  ivere  doing  with  the  tears  on  his 
boyish  cheeks. 

The  Ancient  tried  to  thank  him,  and  the  lad 
said, 

**  Oh  yes  !    If  we  do  not  meet  again  it  will  not 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  255 

be  my  fault.  When  the  war  is  over  may  I  come 
and  see  you  in  your  home  ?  I  wouldn't  stay  too 
long. ' ' 

*'  Indeed,  indeed,  Chutney,  we  must  meet 
again.  At  home.  Happier  days  than  these.  A 
happier  place." 

Of  this  was  the  Ancient  thinking  while  he 
read  of  Gallipoli.  And  his  eye  fell  down  the 
printed  sheet  and  there  was  the  lad's  name:  his 
real  name :  and  a  date :  the  date  on'  which  the 
baby  of  our  unit  had  attained  his  majority — 
killed  in  action  in  performance  of  his  heroic, 
merciful  duty,  for  to  heal  wounds,  not  to  make 
them,  was  his  war-task. 

•  ••••••• 

It  was  very  long  before  the  Ancient  left  his 
place  in  the  quiet  wood.  But  there  had  been 
no  more  reading.  As  easily  could  he  have  read 
St.  Simon  in  a  church  where  they  were  singing 
Requiem.  If  remembering  and  loving  be  indeed 
as  well  Avorth  laying  by  our  dead  as  flowers, 
whose  sweetness  will  presently  change  to  ill 
odours  of  decay,  then  was  not  the  poor  Ancient 
wasteful  of  time  during  those  sad  hours  that  he 
sat  there  all  alone  with  grief. 

Are  they  not  over  ready  to  chide  us  for  yield- 
ing to  sorrow  ?  Ho  who  lets  the  cause  of  our 
pain  come  to  us  must  know  that  the  pain  will 


256  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

come,  and  mean  it  also.  If  we  turn  too  hardily 
from  it  are  we  not  likely  to  miss  what  it  came  to 
do  for  us  1  They  do  not  expect  us  to  receive 
without  anguish  sharp  wounds  in  the  rest  of  us, 
but  wounds  in  our  heart  we  are  bidden  to  treat  as 
if  the  pain  were  subjective  and  voluntary,  a  pain 
that  need  only  be  there  while  we  yield  to  it.  No 
doctor  is  brutal  enough  to  chide  us  for  suffer- 
ing in  our  body,  or  bid  us  cast  the  agony  away 
as  if  it  were  a  morbid,  self-invited  misery. 

Are  men  so  unselfish  that  really  there  is  com- 
monly much  danger  of  our  feeling  too  greatly 
blows  that  have  not  touched  our  own  skin  f 

If  we  could  alv/ays  cry  "  Come  !  I  am  alive 
still.  It  is  only  another  man  who  is  dead.  My 
time  isn't  shortened.  Nothing  has  been  taken 
of  mine;  let  me  hurry  on  lest  my  pleasures  and 
profit  get  on  too  far  for  me  to  overtake  them : ' ' 
would  it  be  good  for  us  1 

I  do  not  believe  much  in  his  power  of  sym- 
pathy who  refuses  to  suffer  except  in  the  mate- 
rial part  of  him. 

It  was  dusk  before  the  Ancient  found  himself 
walking  down  the  steep  hill  that  is  the  village 
street  of  Arques :  a  dusk,  chill  and  with  a  rising 
of  dank  mist  in  it,  more  proper  to  the  season 
than  the  humid  sunshine  of  the  early  afternoon 
had  been. 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY.  257 

At  the  door  of  a  long  white  house,  a  door  up 
four  steps  from  the  street,  stood  an  elderly- 
woman  knitting  and  talking  over  her  shoulder 
to  someone  inside. 

Over  her  head  hung  a  little  faded  bush. 

**  Monsieur,"  said  she, ''  one  does  not  only  sell 
wine  here.    Tea  also.    English  tea." 

' '  We  do  not  grow  tea  in  England, ' '  confessed 
the  Ancient,  with  meek  disavowal  of  his  coun- 
try's greatness. 

*'  Tiens  !" 

*'  But  we  certainly  like  it.  If  you  please  I 
will  see  what  English  tea  is  like.  Once,  Madame, 
in  Egypt  I  was  going  to  buy  a  very  queer  antique 
Egyptian  pot,  but  remarked  par  parentJiese  that 
it  was  ugly  all  the  same.  *  Ugly  !'  cried  the 
vendor  much  offended,  *  'Tis  not  my  taste.  / 
did  not  manufacture  this  antique.  It  was 
made  in  Birmingham — the  English  taste  I  sup- 
posed.' " 

* '  Nor  did  I  make  the  English  tea  I  sell, ' '  said 
the  matron,  laughing.  *'  I  supposed  they  made 
it  in  London. ' ' 

"  Let  us  hope  not." 

It  was  excellent  tea;  quite  strong;  and  the 
woman  was  an  excellent  woman  too.  She  said 
times  were  very  hard  for  her  trade — for  every- 
one's trade  in  such  a  place  as  Arques,  where 


258  FRENCH  WINDOWS  258 

nothing  that  was  wanted  in  the  war  was  made — 
except  young  men  and  they  were  all  gone.  Her 
sons  were  gone,  and  her  nephews,  also  the  sons 
of  her  stepmother  (who  were  decent  fellows 
considering).  It  was  hard  to  make  enough  sous 
to  make  francs  with,  and  sous  didn't  buy  much 
these  times.  And  one  liked  to  send  parcels  to 
one's  sons  Id  has  at  the  war,  with  g.ourmandises 
in  them.  A  customer  was  almost  a  gift  of  the 
Tout-Puissant. 

''  Come  !  I  have  also  English  Kekk,"  she  re- 
membered.   ' '  'Auntly  Kekk. ' ' 

And  from  a  cupboard  she  produced  a  cake 
with  the  flavour  of  that  ilk. 

*'  Before  the  war  English  travellers  came 
here:  and  this  one  I  bought  in  Dieppe.  Rei.''. 
'Auntly  Kekk." 

Huntley  and  Palmer 's  grease-proof  paper  still 
clung  to  it  like  a  cerement. 

**  But,"  said  Madame  presently,  ''  I  ennuie 
Monsieur." 

*'  No,  Madame.  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to 
talk." 

"  Ah,  then  !  Monsieur  is  triste.  Him  also 
the  war  has  hurt  1  Forgive  me  !  One's  own 
pin  scratches,  but  one  knows  not  what  knife  may 
have  cut  in  under  another  person's  cloak.  So 
one  talks,  and  is  a  gene." 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  259 

*  *  No,  Madame.  There  is  no  gene  in  kindliness. 
But  I  have  just  read  of  the  death  of  one  who 
was  very  young,  whom  I  knew,  and  loved. ' ' 

"  Everywhere  !  Everywhere  !"  she  said,  in  a 
low  plain  voice,  and  shook  her  head.  Then  gent- 
ly went  out  of  the  little  parlour  back  into  the 
house-place,  where  her  husband  was. 

When  the  Ancient  called  her  back  to  ask  what 
he  owed  her,  her  little  girl  came  with  her,  cling- 
ing to  her  gown. 

' '  Nothing, ' '  said  the  mother.  ' '  I  do  not  want 
Monsieur  to  pay  anything." 

Sympathy  can  afford  to  dress  herself  oddly. 
This  was  Madame 's  way. 

*'  But,  no,"  said  the  Ancient,  ''  you  do  not 
think  it  would  comfort  me  to  remember  this 
petite  and  know  that  some  of  the  bread  you  find 
it  so  hard  to  earn  for  her  I  had  swallowed  ?" 

**  Eh,  it  is  hard  to  earn  the  bread.  But  I  did 
wish  Monsieur  would  just  be  my  guest  (a  poor 
woman's  guest)  this  one  time." 

The  little  girl,  with  broad  blue  Norman  eyes, 
lifted  her  fat  fist  to  her  mother,  pulling  her 
mother 's  apron  over  it  to  hide  it,  with  the  other 
hand. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  !  that's  as  bad.  Much  worse: 
for  it  is  double  what  I  could  have  asked  for  the 
tea." 


260  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

'*  Not  worse  at  all.  It  is  the  begmning  of  her 
dot" 

Our  argument  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  another  customer  in  the  house-place  where 
the  little  bar  was.  He  greeted  Madame 's  hus- 
band, and  her  small  daughter  said, 

*  *  It  is  our  big  Paul. ' ' 

**  The  son  of  my  husband's  sister,"  observed 
Madame. 

The  little  girl  trotted  out  to  him :  and  showed 
him  her  dot.  Which  brought  him  to  us.  It  was 
my  big  artilleryman.  Indoors  he  looked  bigger 
than  ever. 

His  aunt  and  he  exchanged  a  few  words  in 
Norman  patois  unintelligible  to  the  Ancient,  the 
little  girl  listening  with  grave  eyes. 

* '  I  must  go, ' '  said  the  Ancient. 

"  I  should  have  asked  if  I  might  walk  with 
you  as  far  as  to  the  gare:"  said  the  big  Paul, 
*'  but,  alas,  you  have  another  companion  since 
we  parted." 

All  the  eyes  in  Arques  could  not  have  held 
more  gentle  sympathy  than  this  one :  the  mother 
was  softly  stroking  the  flaxen  hair  of  her  petite, 
and  the  silent,  quiet  caress  was  somehow  sym- 
pathy too. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  come  with  me,"  said 
the  Ancient.     **  That  companion  of  whom  you 


CHUTNEY 'S  MAJORITY  261 

speak,  la  fristesse,  comes  often  in  these  days. 
One  makes  no  stranger  of  her.  Ah — if  it  were 
only  to  me  she  came  ! ' ' 

So  we  went  out  together,  and  were  friends. 
But  after  that  day  we  never  met  again,  for  the 
Ancient  had  not  the  heart  to  go  back  soon  to 
Arques,  and  in  a  little  while  he  was  called  away 
to  another  part  of  France. 


XV 

ON    THE    BRIDGE 

One  afternoon  the  Ancient  found  himself,  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years,  in  Paris.  Through 
it  he  had  often  passed,  southward  for  Italy,  or 
Switzerland,  or  the  Pyrenees;  or  south-east  for 
Germany;  or  on  his  way  from  England,  to  a 
French  country  house :  but  on  all  those  occasions 
he  had  simply  driven  from  one  railway-station 
to  another  without  a  pause :  it  was  many,  many 
years  since  he  had  walked  the  Paris  streets,  or 
lingered  by  the  Seine,  or  entered  any  church, 
or  public  building,  of  the  great  city. 

There  is  much  in  Paris  that,  seen  once,  is 
indelible  from  memory — the  island  of  the  Seine, 
and  Notre  Dame;  the  river-front  of  the  Louvre 
(in  spite  of  Louis  Philippe  and  his  L.'s),  or  its 
inner  arms  stretched  out  to  the  Carrousel;  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  and  the  view  from  it,  up 
the  slack  bowstring  of  the  Elysees,  towards  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe :  but  after  so  long  an  absence 

262 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  263 

much  was  forgotten,  and  there  was  change 
enough  too. 

Standing  at  the  base  of  the  Egyptian  Obelisk 
that  marks  the  death-place  of  the  Monarchy,  the 
Ancient  had  nothing  between  him  and  the 
Carrousel- Arch  but  that  endless  monotone  of  flat 
garden  which  he  had  known  broken  by  the 
stark,  charred  ruin  of  the  Tuileries.  With  that 
to  his  left,  there  were  new  palaces  to  his  right, 
and  a  new  bridge,  with  grandiose  gold  and 
marble  boundary  pillars,  like  huge  gateposts 
without  a  gate. 

Behind  Notre  Dame  the  Ancient  had 
sought  out  the  ''  little  Doric  Morgue"  and  had 
not  found  it:  in  spite  of  Browning's  boasting 
first  line  in  his  small  great  poem.  Now  he  would 
go  and  find  something  that  could  hardly  need 
much  seeking — the  way  must  be  across  the  new 
bridge.  A  very  splendid  bridge,  with  more 
splendid  views  in  every  direction  from  it  up 
river  and  down,  forwards  towards  the  vast 
empty  space  in  front  of  the  Invalides,  and  back- 
ward whence  the  Ancient  had  come. 

Almost  everyone  crossing  it  was  in  uniform: 
as  was  he :  but  many  of  the  others  were  wounded. 

*'  That  certainly,"  thought  the  Ancient,  ''  is 
the  Invalides.  There  are  plenty  of  domes,  but 
there's  no  mistaking  that  dome." 


264  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

He  stood  still,  not  for  uncertainty,  but  to  take 
in  the  wonderful  reach  of  river,  and  the  huge 
pearls  of  the  buildings  shimmering  out  of  a 
tenuous  opaline  scarf  of  mist. 

* '  Is  Monsieur  seeking  a  direction  1 ' '  asked  an 
artilleryman,  saluting  and  smiling. 

*  *  Well,  you  can  make  my  certainty  more  sure. 
I  am  on  a  little  pilgrimage ;  and  the  object  of  my 
pilgrimage  lies,  I  feel  sure,  under  that  golden 
dome  r' 

**  The  Emperor!  Oh  yes.  He  is  there.  That 
is  the  Invalides." 

He  was  standing  still,  and  now  turned. 

**  May  I  go  with  you,  mon  Colonel,  and  join 
my  homage  ?"  he  asked. 

English  officers  in  uniform  are  not  supposed 
to  walk  the  streets  with  soldiers:  but  to  say  so 
seemed  but  a  poor  response  to  the  lad's  eager 
kindliness,  especially  as  he  must  know  the  regu- 
lations without  reminder. 

**  The  Emperor,"  said  he,  '*  was  a  little 
artilleryman  himself,  and  I  should  think  he 
would  like  the  homage  of  an  English  Colonel  and 
a  French  artif lot  offered  together.  May  I  come  f ' ' 

So  they  went  together.  And  presently  the 
Ancient  knew  all  about  his  young  guide  and 
companion.  Frangois  his  nom  de  hapteme,  his 
age  twenty,  his  home  Lyons,  where  he  and  his 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  265 

mother  kept  a  little  shop  together.  La  Veuve 
Gorsse,  her  name.  Of  rather  a  good  family — 
not  noble,  mind  you,  but  hie^i  elevee;  feu  M. 
Gorse  dead  since  Frangois  was  a  baby  in  the 
young  wife's  arms.  They  were  very  happy,  he 
and  his  mother.  Of  course  she  had  memories — 
but  he  had  only  hopes,  and  in  them  her  memories 
had  resurrection. 

*'  Is  it  not  wonderful,  mon  Colonel  ?  Ces 
femmes?  they  love,  and  God  beckons  a  little 
finger  to  the  one  they  love,  and  they  lose  him, 
and  their  heart  breaks :  then  they  look  in  their 
baby's  eyes,  and  read  a  message,  and  a  mandate, 
and  the  baby's  tearless  eyes  dry  their  eyes,  tear- 
drowned,  and  they  gather  the  broken  bits  of 
their  hearts  and  piece  them  together,  and  build 
a  temple  for  the  baby  to  live  in,  and  they  live  in 
it  too.  And  Memory  lives  in  it,  between  them, 
though  the  baby  only  sees  her  now  and  then. 
The  baby  only  has  hopes,  he.  But  the  mother 
plaits  them  and  her  memories  together,  until  at 
last  all  her  memories  have  grown  into  hopes  too. 
Is  it  not  ?  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  Colonel,  how 
happy  we  are.  We  are  poor  folk ;  not  very  poor, 
we  have  all  we  need,  and  enough  to  help  others 
with:  only,  all  we  have  we  earn.  It  is  more 
interesting,  eh  ?  A  piece  of  bread  you  earn  is 
a  bit  of  your  history.    Is  it  not  T' 


266  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

Over  and  over  again  the  lad  spoke  of  their 
happiness:  and  once,  the  Ancient,  heathenishly, 
shuddered:  as  though  dreading  the  eavesdrop- 
ping of  Nemesis. 

A  great  crowd  was  passing  out  of  the  gates  of 
the  Invalides,  a  greater  moving  in.  One  had 
to  go  slowly,  and  still  the  lad  chattered  on.  His 
voice  was  vibrant  with  life  and  gaiety,  and  he 
smiled  again  and  again  for  sheer  friendly  happi- 
ness and  goodwill.  He  was  very  meridional; 
not  swarthy  at  all,  or  even  dark;  but  small, 
compactly  knit,  all  his  little  figure  set  on  wires, 
and  every  gesture  a  whole  sentence,  every 
syllable  of  which  was  a  nerve. 

The  large,  somewhat  austere,  inner  quadrangle 
was  full  of  people :  in  one  corner  were  a  number 
of  German  guns,  in  another  several  captured 
aeroplanes.  There  was  much  comment,  but 
low- voiced:  no  gabble,  or  shrill  chatter.  Of  the 
women  who  looked  at  the  guns  most  were  in 
mourning:  the  pressing  crowd  made  way  for 
them,  but  hardly  noticeably.  A  young  widow 
close  to  us  seemed  scarcely  to  turn  her  eyes  to 
the  guns,  but  bent  them  on  her  tiny  son,  who 
leant  against  her  dress.  She  drew  the  child  away 
very  soon,  tearless,  with  a  singular  grave  dignity 
in  her  immovable  white  face. 

**  Perhaps  one  of  those  things,"  said  Francois, 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  267 

when  she  was  lost  iu  the  crowd, ' '  made  her  petit 
fatherless.    He  will  not  forget.  ..." 

To  the  Ancient  it  seemed  that  everyone  was 
doing  the  same  thing:  not  gabbling,  but  re- 
membering. 

''  Yesterday,"  said  Frangois,  ''  I  came  here, 
and  saw  a  General  give  medals.  Gallieni,  I 
think :  a  fine  face :  a  fine  man.  Slim,  lean,  like  a 
lean  dog  that  will  not  tire  till  he  has  his  teeth  in 
th^  beast  he  follows.  A  soldier  all  over  him. 
You  saw  it  in  his  back,  in  his  eyes,  in  his  mouth. 
There  wasn  't  much  talk  in  his  mouth.  '  Soldiers, ' 
said  he,  'you  know  what  they  have  done'  (a 
finger  pointing  to  those  guns) ;  'how  they  and 
others  like  them  have  turned  French  homes  into 
stone-heaps.  You  know  that  a  sang  impur 
stains  our  land :  but  your  own  blood  has  flowed, 
and  will  flow,  to  erase  that  foul  stain  from  our 
soil  of  France.  I  am  proud  that  France  uses 
my  hands  to-day  to  set  near  your  hearts  the 
symbol  of  the  maternal  gratitude  with  wiich 
her  own  heart  is  full  towards  you  and  your 
million  comrades.  While  your  heart  beats  it  will 
keep  time  with  the  pulse  of  the  Great  Heart  of 
France,  and  should  the  signal  sound  for  it  to 
cease  to  beat,  on  some  other  field  than  that 
where  already  France  has  seen  your  glory,  you 


268  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

will  know  that  in  the  shrine  of  Her  Heart  your 
name  shall  be  immortal.'  " 

So  they,  the  Ancient  and  the  widow's  young 
hope,  gave  themselves  to  the  stream  that  pressed 
on,  through  the  dim,  gaunt  passages  of  the  great 
hospice  of  heroes,  to  the  sleeping  chamber  of  the 
Arch-hero. 

The  light  there  is  always  unearthly,  not  pallid, 
but  half -cloistral :  a  very  singular  light  that 
seems  at  every  hour  to  be  that  of  Dawn. 

The  silence  of  the  place  is  as  poignant  as  its 
light:  and  folds  into  itself  the  only  sound  there 
ever  is,  that  of  reverent  feet :  for  no  voice  is  ever 
there  for  Echo  to  report,  but  that  of  Fame ;  and 
she  stands  brooding  there,  as  though  her  work 
were  done  and  lay  finished  in  yonder  tomb, 
breathing  a  name  with  every  pulse  of  her  un- 
dying heart. 

Out  into  the  spring  sunshine  the  Ancient  and 
his  new  friend  came  together. 

''  You  have  been  there  before  ? ' '  asked  the  lad. 

"  Very  often.  But  not  for  many  years.  And 
every  time  the  same  shame  is  on  me.  Do  you 
know  how  I,  an  Englishman,  spell  shame  ? ' ' 

*'  How,  Monsieur  ?" 

**  Ste.  Helene.  Nothing  we  can  ever  do,  or 
write,  will  alter  it.    He  was  never  our  captive. 


ON  THE  Brci'DGE  269 

We  never  leapt  into  the  sky  and  caught  your 
Eagle.  He  flew  to  us,  in  the  name  of  our  island 
hospitality:  and  our  hospitality  was  that  rock 
and  its  pitiful,  vulgar  vexings  of  his  end.  I 
wish  Dante  had  waited  to  write  till  he  could  have 
put  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  in  his  Inferno,  with  his 
own  name  scrawled  round  his  hollow  head  on  a 
red  tape  for  punishment." 

They  walked  on,  and  the  lad  declared  that  his 
new  friend  ought  to  see  the  gardens  of  the 
Luxembourg — the  most  delightful  spot,  said  he 
in  Paris.  So  thither  they  went,  though  the 
Ancient  was  very  far  from  thinking  those 
gardens  the  beauty-spot  of  Paris.  Thence, 
through  the  Latin  quarter,  they  walked  to  the 
Pantheon,  but  found  it  closed.  In  one  of  the 
half -empty  streets  (the  Latinists  all  gone,  I 
suppose,  to  the  war)  they  met  two  elderly  priests 
making  their  afternoon  promenade.  They  stood 
still  and  looked  after  the  Ancient  and  the  young 
Lyonnais,  smiling  kindly. 

* '  Tiens ! ' '  said  one  of  them.  ' '  That  is  good 
to  see.    Voilci  V Entente  !" 

"  L' Entente  Cordiale  illustree,"  agreed  the 
other,  nodding  his  head  cheerfully,  up  and  down. 

The  Ancient  saluted,  and  then  they  took  off 
their  big  hats  and  bowed  very  low.  Of  course 
Francois  saluted  too. 


270  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

*'  Good  people  those,"  lie  observed,  when  all 
our  little  ceremonies  were  over  and  we  had 
moved  on. 

'^  In  England,"  said  the  Ancient  laughing, 
'*  we  think  all  our  priests  good." 

"  Oh  yes!  And  we  are  good  Catholics,  my 
mother  and  I.  I  was  brought  up  to  respect 
them — I  meant  kind,  warm-hearted  folk,  those 
two.  They  love  soldiers — one  could  see  that — 
and  it  pleased  them  to  see  a  little  French  soldier 
walking  with  an  English  militaire." 

*  *  They  will  put  you  in  their  breviaries  like  an 
image." 

**  Tant  mieux!  It  is  good  to  have  one's  name 
mentioned — up  there.  My  father  is  there — but 
perhaps  they  think  '  Oh  yes ;  of  course !  Fathers 
will  say  anything  of  their  only  son.'  " 

Then  the  lad  talked  again  of  his  mother,  and 
of  a  little  girl  she  had  adopted. 

*'  That  was  when  I  was  a  young  boy,"  he  said, 
"  before  I  could  earn  anything.  She  asked  if  I 
minded.  For,  of  course,  we  hadn't  much  to 
spare  then.  But  that  petite  had  no  one;  and  my 
mother  longed  to  take  the  little  helpless  one  and 
make  a  daughter  of  her.  Of  course  I  did  not 
mind.  And  now  she  is  a  big  girl,  and  altogether 
good.  Now  that  I  have  had  to  come  away  to 
go  to  the  war  my  mother  has  her  to  comfort  her, 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  271 

and  is  not  all  alone.  I  suppose  God  thought  of 
that  all  along." 

We  went  into  a  little  quiet  cafe,  and  had  coffee 
together,  and  the  lad  wanted  to  pay — out  of  a 
tiny,  lean  purse.  But  the  Ancient  explained 
that  it  was  the  old  person  who  always  did  the 
paying. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  all  the  young 
soldier  said.  He  had  a  very  sweet  and  honest 
heart,  but  he  was,  it  seemed,  wild;  or  had  been. 
He  thought  youth  the  season  of  pleasure,  and  it 
was  not  difficult  to  see  that  he  ran  wherever 
pleasure  called. 

He  did  not  perceive  that  his  Colonel  was 
something  else:  he  saw  only  the  khaki  and  the 
badges,  and  seemed  to  have  no  idea  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  little  patch  of  ruddy  purple  at 
the  throat.  So  he  rattled.  And  the  Ancient, 
weighing  it  all,  resolved  to  say  nothing :  because 
of  something  he  was  resolved  to  say. 

*'  Francois,"  he  said  at  last,  ''are  you  going 
to  the  front  I" 

"  Yes,  my  Colonel.  To-morrow,  or  the  next 
day." 

^'  And  shall  you  go  to  confession  first  ?" 

"  To  confession  !" 

**  Yes.  You  seem  to  have  been  a  wild  boy: 
is  it  long  since  you  confessed  yourself  ?" 


272  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

"  Long!  Yes.  Many,  many  years.  Not  since 
I  was  a  little  boy. 

"  And  you  have  done  much  to  confess." 

''  Oh,  plenty." 

Then  he  laughed:  his  laughter  ringing  out, 
with  frankest  merriment. 

*'  Oh  you  English!"  he  cried.  "  Always  the 
same.  Always  practical!  You  are  Catholic— 
and  the  Catholic  Church  says  'Confess  yourself: 
so  you  say  no  more,  but  do  it.  It  is  splendid. 
But  it  is  not  like  us  other  French.  We  recognize 
a  principle— Yes :  not  to  do  that  is  blind :  a  want 
of  logic.  But  you  put  the  principle  at  once  into 
practice:  we  not.  I  am  thoroughly  Catholic:  I 
believe :  I  would  go  to  Mass  if  anyone  tried  to 
stop  me  going.  But  to  confess!  Oh  you 
English!  I  am  twenty  years  old.  That  is  not 
the  season  for  confession.  It  is  the  season  for 
doing  the  things  to  confess " 

''When  ?" 

"  Plus  tard." 

"  There  may  be  no  'plus  tard.'  I  have  been 
lately  where  you  go  to-morrow  or  next  day.  I 
know  what  it  is  like.  You  cannot  know  till  you 
see.  There  you  will  meet  the  enemy.  You  will 
meet  God  too,  as  you  have  not  met  Him,  per- 
haps, anywhere  before.  He  gives  you  rendezvous: 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  273 

if  you  do  not  keep  it  you  may  never  meet  Him 
again:  never;  not  in  all  Eternity." 

*  *  My  Colonel !  my  dear  friend  of  one  after- 
noon, are  you  not  solemn  ?" 

*'  Life  is  solemn.  You  will  see  how  solemn 
when  you  get  where  you  go  to-morrow.  You 
told  me  just  now  that  the  war  forced  men  to 
think,  and  that  you  had  put  your  little  affairs 
in  order.  Set  your  great  things  in  order  too. 
I  am  sure  that  is  why  we  met  on  yonder  bridge, 
and  became  in  a  moment  friends — that  I  might 
tell  you  this.  We  are  comrades :  an  old  militaire 
and  a  young :  comrades  may  say  to  each  other  all 
that  jumps  into  their  mouths  out  of  their  hearts. 
I  am  sure  you  are  not  angry." 

* '  Angry !  No !  How  could  you  make  me 
angry  ?  I  never  saw  you  till  two  hours  ago,  and 
now  I  feel  as  if  had  loved  you  all  my  life.  But 
what  you  ask  is  contrary  to  all  my  habits.  My 
mother  has  asked  it  a  thousand  times,  and  I  only 
kissed  her,  and  laughed,  and  said  '  Maman,  I  am 
young  yet.  Let  me  alone.  I  must  run  about 
awhile.'  Only  you  must  not  think  I  am 
angry. ' ' 

Again  he  laughed  merrily. 

''It  is  because  you  are  so  English  that  I 
laugh.  And  I  thought  you  so  wonderfully 
French.    I  suppose  that  is  why  you  do  things, 


274  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

you  Englisli — because  you  are  so  definite:  so 
practical." 

''  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  practical,  certainly,  to 
set  one 's  small  matters  in  order  and  leave  one 's 
great  matters  unsettled,  in  disorder,  for  chance 
to  arrange.  Chance  arranges  nothing.  If  you 
were  dying  of  a  sickness  you  would  send  for  a 
priest  ?" 

*'  Bien,  sur.    I  am  a  good  Catholic." 

**  And  you  may  be  dying  now:  in  spite  of 
the  sun  and  gay  air,  and  your  strong  health, 
and  laughter.  Think  of  it.  I  will  say  no 
more." 

The  Ancient  felt  almost  sure  of  one  thing — 
the  lad,  though  he  would  have  listened  politely, 
would  have  paid  no  heed  at  all  had  he  supposed 
that  he  was  listening  to  a  priest's  advice:  it 
would  have  been  a  professionalism,  mere  words 
of  course.  Such  advice  coming  from  another 
soldier,  though  an  old  one,  would  have  a 
different  appeal:  would  it  have  effect  as  well 
as  weight? 

All  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  they  spent  to- 
gether :  and  of  that  matter  of  confession  no  other 
word  was  said,  though  Francois  often  broke  into 
a  laugh  and  the  Ancient  knew  he  was  thinking 
of  it.    Almost  all  the  lad's  talk  was  of  his  home, 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  275 

and  of  his  mother;  less  often  of  his  adopted 
sister. 

At  last  he  and  the  Ancient  parted. 

'*  Here  is  my  name  and  address,"  said  the 
Ancient,  scribbling  on  a  scrap  of  paper  his  sur- 
name only,  sans  titre,  and  the  place  where  he  was 
living.  This  he  folded  round  a  crucifix,  and  a 
medal  of  God's  Mother. 

*'  I  will  write  to  j^ou,"  the  lad  promised, 
*'  from  the  trenches.  And  this  is  my  mother's 
address — would  you  write  to  her  and  tell  her 
you  saw  me,  and  that  I  was  well,  and  happy  ?" 

The  Ancient  promised,  and  they  shook  hands 
and  parted,  never  to  meet  again  here. 

Less  than  a  week  afterwards  the  Ancient  had 
a  letter  from  the  boy. 

*'It  is  all  as  you  said,"  he  wrote.  **Thero 
were  twenty-nine  of  us,  here  where  I  am,  when 
I  joined.  Nine  are  killed.  But  I  want  at  once 
to  tell  you  something,  my  Colonel  and  comrade 
and  friend;  the  very  day  I  reached  this  place  I 
found  a  village  church  with  a  priest  in  it,  and  I 
confessed  myself,  and  next  morning  I  received 
the  good  God.  And,  please,  send  me  little 
crosses,  like  the  one  you  gave  me,  and  medals 
of  the  Holy  Virgin,  for  I  want  to  give  them  to 


276  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

my  comrades.  I  persuaded  nearly  all  of  thos3 
nine  who  are  now  killed  to  confess  themselves. 
I  will  persuade  others.  What  you  said  is  true : 
God  gave  me  rendezvous  here:  I  am  glad  I  did 
not  fail  to  keep  tryst.  I  suppose  that  was  why 
you  and  I  met  on  the  bridge.  Do  write  soon, 
soon,  soon.  And  send  me  those  things.  And 
write  to  my  mother  and  tell  her  (though  I  have 
told  her)  that  I  have  done  what  you  asked.  She 
will  not  be  jealous  that  I  should  have  done  for 
you  what  I  always  refused  to  do  for  her.  She 
will  be  penetree  with  joy.  You  seem  women  and 
priests  always  ask  such  things,  and  one  smiles 
and  puts  it  aside :  but  when  another  soldier  asks 
it  is  different :  after  you  had  gone  away,  in  Paris 
on  Monday  night,  I  felt  very  lonely.  I  wanted 
to  run  after  you.  All  Paris  seemed  empty. 
And  your  voice  went  on  in  my  ears  always  saying 
the  same  thing.  And  coming  up  here  in  the 
train  it  was  the  same.  But,  though  I  pretended 
to  myself  to  laugh  at  my  English  Colonel's  queer 
practical  ideas,  I  had  (I  am  sure)  given  up 
struggling  even  before  I  left  Paris.  I  knew  I 
should  do  what  you  asked — but  not  there.  You 
said  God  had  given  me  rendezvous,  here  in  the 
battle-field,  and  I  came  here  knowing  I  should 
find  Him  waiting,  and  I  knew  I  would  have  to 
give  in  and  come  to  Him.    I  am  very  happy. 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  277 

To-morrow  I  shall  receive  the  good  God  again. 
Write  soon,  soon,  soon.  Your  little  comrade, 
FranQois." 

The  Ancient  made  a  fat  parcel  of  crosses, 
scapulars,  rosaries,  and  medals,  and  sent  it :  and 
of  course  he  wrote.  And  he  wrote  to  the  wid- 
owed mother  of  the  boy,  and  received  from  her  a 
Tvonderful  letter  of  joy  and  gratitude  and  fear. 
She  said  how  tender  and  sweet  her  lad  had  al- 
ways been,  how  loving  and  devoted,  how  hard- 
working for  her,  and  self-denying,  but  exuberant 
with  youth  and  vitality,  and  so,  wayward;  she 
could  find  no  words  to  express  her  deep  thank- 
fuJness  that  he  had,  after  so  many  years '  neglect, 
confessed  himself  and  received  Our  Lord.  But 
she  could  hardly  think  for  terror :  every  moment 
was  a  horror  of  suspense.  .  .  . 

Another  letter  came  from  the  lad  written  very 
soon  after  the  first;  full  of  buoyant  hope  and 
courage,  and  beating  (as  every  French  soldier's 
letters  beat)  like  a  pulse,  with  a  passion  of  love 
for  France.  Can  the  sons  of  a  mother  who  has 
never  known  anything  but  secure  prosperity 
feel  exactly  that  sort  of  agony  of  love  and 
worship  ?  Each  separate  French  heart  seems 
to  feel  that  the  wounds  in  the  breast  of  France, 
their  outraged  mother,  dealt  there  by  the  same 


278  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

enemy  before  and  now,  can  hardly  be  healed 
without  the  outpouring  of  its  own  blood. 

Then  three  weeks  passed,  and  no  letter  came, 
and  the  Ancient's  heart  sank  within  him.  That 
FrauQois  would  forget,  or  be  lazy,  he  knew  was 
not  possible.  At  last  he  could  bear  the  suspense 
no  longer,  and  wrote  to  the  lad's  Commanding 
Officer.  Between  the  sending  of  that  letter  and 
the  receipt  of  a  reply  came  one  from  Lyons, 
from  Madame  Gorsse,  terror-stricken.  She  had 
heard  nothing,  for  near  three  weeks;  had  Mon- 
signor  heard  f 

Then  came  the  answer  from  the  Commanding 
Officer :  the  young  soldier  Gorsse  had  been  killed, 
doing  his  duty,  on  such  a  day,  and  his  comrades 
had  laid  his  shattered  body  to  rest  in  the  holy 

ground  by  the  little  church  of .     The  lad's 

mother  had  already  been  told. 

To  write  to  her  was  almost  impossible  but  not 
so  impossible  as  not  to  write.  In  what  words 
could  any  writer  deal  with  a  sorrow  so  over- 
whelming as  the  Ancient  knew  hers  must  be  ? 
But  to  stand  silent,  for  dread  and  shyness,  would 
be  the  abyss  of  selfishness. 

The  poor  woman 's  answer  was  hard  to  read : 
she  was,  plainly,  heart-broken:  and  out  of  her 
broken  heart  the  words  came  in  an  awful  cry  of 
agony.     That  her  boy  had  given  his  life  for 


ON  THE  BRIDGE  279 

France  was  her  pride,  but  could  not  yet  be  her 
comfort.  I  dare  not  try  to  say  more  of  that 
letter — those  letters,  for  many  came,  and  come 
still. 

Does  any  reader  remember  a  young  Savoyard 
Sergeant  whom  the  Ancient  had  soigne  in  the 
hospital  at  B.  in  October,  1914  1  He  was  in 
depot  at  Lyons,  and  to  him  the  Ancient  wrote, 
asking  him  to  do  a  very  difficult  thing. 

'*  I  know,"  he  confessed,  in  asking  it,  *'  how 
hard  it  is:  to  bid  a  young  soldier  like  you  go 
and  seek  out  this  stricken  mother,  to  whom  you 
are  a  stranger,  and  speak  to  her  in  her  terrible 
anguish.  But,  if  you  would  do  that  great  act 
of  charity,  I  am  sure  it  would  comfort  her  as 
nothing  else  might :  just  because  you  are,  like  her 
son,  young  and  a  soldier." 

The  Ancient  was  sure  he  would  go :  there  was 
something  chivalrous  and  fine  in  his  character 
(is  it  not  in  the  character  of  every  French 
soldier  ?)  that  would  draw  him  to  the  side  of  the 
lonely  mother:  the  Ancient  could  picture  his 
manly,  respectful,  sympathy,  and  deep  rever- 
ence. He  did  go:  and  the  mother  wrote  of  his 
visit  with  a  noble  appreciation  and  wonderful 
depth  of  gratitude.  As  for  him,  his  letter  was 
like  one  written  by  a  man  who  has  just  come  out 
of  a  holy  place. 


280  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Should  any  French  men  or  women  ever  read 
these  papers  the  writer  of  them  hopes  that,  with 
the  singular  sure  instinct  of  their  race,  they  will 
find  in  them  a  very  humble,  but  very  reverent, 
act  of  love  and  veneration  for  the  great  heart  of 
the  French  people. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FINIS 

For  the  last  time  those  patient  and  kindly  people 
who  have  been  his  readers  for  nearly  two  years 
foregather  with  the  Ancient,  and  to  him  the 
parting  is  grievous.  As  the  papers  themselves 
tell  of  many  a  friend  made  by  the  war's  way- 
side, so  have  other  friends  been  made  by  him  in 
the  telling :  those  wayside  friends  were,  in  many 
an  instance,  seen  but  once,  though  for  ever  to  be 
remembered;  these  latter  friends  have  never 
been  seen  at  all,  but  from  home,  from  beloved 
France,  from  America — Northern  and  Latin — • 
they  have  written,  often  with  that  special 
warmth  of  generous  intimacy  that  even  shy 
people  find  possible  when  addressing  one  whom 
they  will  not  count  a  stranger  but  whom  they 
feel  sure  of  never  meeting  except  in  his  printed 
page. 

The  thought  of  meeting  them  again  in  that 
fashion  has  given  to  the  writing  of  the  later  of 
these  papers  a  peculiar  pleasure ;  and  the  thought 

281 


282  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

of  so  meeting  them  no  more  comes  to  the  writer 
as  reluctantly  as  that  of  any  other  parting. 
Besides,  the  closing  of  the  series  seems  like  a 
second  and  more  final  farewell  to  those  other 
friends  of  which  the  papers  themselves  describe 
(very  hurriedly)  the  welcome  arrival. 

Very  soon  these  loosely  strung  leaves  will  be 
clipped  together  in  a  book,  and  no  book  of  the 
writer's  ever  took  so  long  in  the  making  as  this 
one  will  have  done:  so  that  much  more  has 
happened  during  the  writing  of  its  pages  than 
ever  was  the  case  in  the  instance  of  any  other 
book  of  his — and  one  thing  in  especial,  a  thing 
dreaded  through  all  his  life,  a  thing  that  must 
make  whatever  may  remain  to  him  of  life  wholly 
different  from  the  long  years  before.  For  his 
first  remembered  impression  of  life  was  the  reali- 
zation that  he  was  his  mother's  son,  and  almost 
the  next  his  realization  of  the  terror  lest  he 
should  lose  her.  The  dread  of  that  loss  re- 
mained ever  afterwards  the  only  real  dread  of 
his  life :  no  sorrow,  no  misfortune,  threatened  or 
fallen,  seemed  to  affect  the  suhstance  of  happi- 
ness so  long  as  that  supreme  calamity  was 
spared.  For  fifty-eight  years  it  was  spared,  and 
for  that  immense  reprieve  he  can  but  cry  his 
thanks  to  Divine  patience.  That  the  calamity 
fell  upon  his  life  during  the  writing  of  these 


FINIS  283 

pages  must  make  this,  to  him,  a  different  sort  of 
book  from  any  that  he  has  ^vi'itten,  must  make 
of  the  whole  book  a  lingering  farewell. 

I  trust  no  critics  will  turn  to  this  particular 
page:  it  is  not  for  their  reading,  but  a  private 
message  to  those  gentle,  kindly,  patient  readers 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  above.  And  they,  I 
think,  will  make  excuse  if  this  last  chapter  is 
one,  not  so  much  of  added  episode  as  of  retro- 
spect— long,  wistful,  backward  glances,  over 
travelled  ground 

Our  unit  mobilized  in  Dublin,  its  rendezvous  a 
sunny  plat  of  ground  in  Phoenix  Park  hard  by 
the  Chief  Secretary's  Lodge:  the  sight  of  that 
house  filled  the  Ancient's  breast  with  regrets 
that  the  irresistable  author  of  Obiter  Did  a  and 
Res  JudicatcE  should  ever  have  left  his  native, 
sunny  fields  of  letters  for  the  sour,  storm-bound, 
thankless  exile  of  politics  and  state-craft. 

But  to  no  regi-ets  was  the  (still  unchristened) 
Ancient  left  long  a  prey:  by  a  happy  accident 
his  presence  became  known,  within  an  hour  or 
tvro  of  his  arrival,  to  the  Jesuits  of  Gardiner 
Street,  and  forthwith  was  he  snatched  up  and 
clutched  close  in  the  warm  arms  of  their  hospi- 
tality. Is  anything  on  earth  more  hospitable 
than  an  Irishman  ?  Is  there  anything  like  the 
hospitality  of  Jesuits  ?  And  the  combination  o^ 


284  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Irishman   and   Jesuit   produced   a   result   that 
leaves  in  the  mind  of  the  petted  Ancient  an 
unforgettable   picture.    Is    not   the   essence   of 
hospitality  the  giving  of  the  impression  of  wel- 
come ?    And   that   impression   was    imprinted, 
deep  and  indelible,  on  every  moment  of  those 
six  and  thirty  hours.     Yes,   there   is   another 
priceless  ingredient  in  the  most  treasured  hos- 
pitality— when  it  carries  the  conviction  not  only 
of  welcome  but  of  affection.    And  the  Ancient, 
old  and  battered,  was  made  in  every  moment 
to  feel  (by  men  born  when  he  was  a  grown  lad) 
like  a  beloved  younger  brother  being  equipped 
for  war  by  the  tenderness  of  loving  kindred.  All 
showed  this:  but  by  none  was  it  shown  more 
touchingly  than  by  the  Provencial — who  seemed 
a  fascinating  youth  to  his  guest — and  by  one 
young  Father  who  has  now  for  very  long  been 
himself  a  chaplain  in  the  foremost  of  the  front. 
It  was  only  on  the  morning  of  departure  that 
the  Ancient,  at  his  first  meal  in  camp,  met  all 
his    brother-ofiQcers    together.      They  were    all 
strangers  and  unknowai  to  him  then,  and   on 
that  occasion  they  did  not  say  very  much  to 
him :  each  perhaps  was  thinking  of  his  own  home 
and  friends  from  whom  he  had  just  parted. 
Of  the  Ancient  they  had  already  said,  as  they 
confessed  afterwards,  *'How  can  that  old  man 


FINIS  285 

be  expected  to  stand  it  f  Has  the  War  Office 
ever  seen  him  ? ' ' 

The  park,  as  we  left  it  in  the  shining  August 
morning,  seemed  oddly,  touchingiy  lovely:  and 
the  Ancient  looked  his  last  of  it  with  many  a 
thought  of  a  dear  and  dead,  very  gracious,  kins- 
woman whose  guest  he  had  been  there  in  the 
unvexed  days  of  peace  that  seemed  already 
historic  and  classic. 

Going  down  to  our  somewhat  distant  place  of 
embarkation,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  city, 
all  along  its  quays  and  streets,  we  made  a  long 
and  pretty  slow  procession.  People  crowded  to 
watch  us  go,  and  endless  were  the  salutes  and 
blessings  they  gave  the  Ancient  as  they  caught 
sight  of  him.  '^  God  bless  you,  Father  dear, 
and  bring  you  safe  home."  May  God  bless 
thefii,  and  bring  them  also  peace. 

It  was  a  long  business  embarking,  but  done  at 
last.  Then  sirens  squealed  uncouth  farewells, 
a  band  or  a  bit  of  a  band  played,  soldiers  cheered, 
women  waved  and  wept,  and  turned  to  their 
fathers'  arms,  or  bent  to  dry  their  children's 
eyes,  their  own  streaming ;  some  struck  up  Auld 
Lang  Syne,  and  sang  as  much  of  it  as  they  knew 
by  heart,  and  our  ship  slowly  moved  out  into 
the  water-way,  and  with  ever  gathering  purpose 
and  speed  turned  seawards  and  away. 


286  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

The  bay  of  Dublin!  Howth  and  Ireland's 
Eye,  the  Wicklow  mountains,  and  the  Dublin 
mountains ;  would  one  ever  see  them  again  ? 
All  the  Irish  half  of  me  yearned  to  it  all — of 
what  nation  on  earth  am  I  ?  Two  Irish  grand- 
parents, one  English,  one  Welsh:  and  priceless, 
countless  French  friends,  and  surely  one's 
friendships  have  something  to  say  to  one's  na- 
tionality as  well  as  one's  kinships. 

That  setting  sail  brought  back  ever  so  vividly 
three  sailings  for  India  when  the  Ancient  was 
beginning  his  army  life,  when  so  much  the 
biggest  half  of  life  lay  still  in  front:  Were  we 
going  to  India  now  ?  No  one  knew;  the  Cap- 
tain's orders  were  sealed  and  were  not  opened 
yet:  some  said  we  were:  some  said  Belgium, 
some  France;  it  was  all  guessing.  Anyway,  we 
turned  south  and  east,  and  into  the  west  Ire- 
land and  the  August  day  sank  together.  Our 
unit  was  an  Irish  one,  and  a  large  proportion 
of  the  men  were  Catholics — only  one  of  the 
officers.  Next  morning  the  Ancient  was  allowed 
to  get  his  men  together  and  speak  to  them;  of 
what  lay  before  them,  and  what  it  behoved 
them  to  do.  For  almost  all  the  rest  of  the 
voyage  they  were  coming  to  him,  in  his  cabin, 
to  confession.  I  think  they  all  came. 
We  sailed  on  Tuesday  evening:  on  Thursday 


FINIS  287 

morning  we  were  turning  into  Havre,  the  French 
folk  on  the  quays  watching  our  arrival  in  this 
new  role  with  a  grave  appreciation.  The  com- 
ing of  British  troops  to  France  had  not  always 
been  exactly  the  arrival  of  brothers. 

It  was  not  till  late  evening  that  we  reached 
our  rest-camp  outside  Havre.  We  stayed  there 
two  nights,  and  on  Saturday  entrained  for — we 
knew  not  where.  On  Sunday  we  detrained  at 
Valenciennes  and  marched  to  Jenlain:  before 
midday  on  Monday  we  were  at  La  Rosiere  by 
Mons:  and  so  we  were  "  at  the  war"  as  our 
French  friends  called  it. 

The  first  cold  douche  was  the  order  to  retire 
from  La  Eosiere.  With  more  than  one  way- 
side halt  we  came  at  half -past  six  in  the  evening 
to  Villerspol,  and  thought  to  bivouac  there  for 
the  night  in  an  orchard  of  crowded  trees.  But 
about  nine  there  came  the  sudden  order  to  be  off, 
and  there  was  no  camp  that  night:  through  the 
moonless  dark,  and  dust,  and  thunderous  heat, 
we  marched;  and  finally,  long  after  midnight, 
were  told  to  rest  in  our  tracks  by  the  roadside — 
near  Villereau.  About  four  a.m.  we  were  off 
again,  and  twelve  hours  later  came  to  our  halt 
near  Troisville.  Our  first  batch  of  wounded, 
fifty-five  I  think,  came  in  that  evening. 

About  four  next  morning  we  were  off  again, 


288  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

but  hardly  any  distance,  first  to  Reumont,  tlien 
Bertry,  then  Maurois,  where  we  opened  a  dress- 
ing-station, and  wounded  were  brought  in  im- 
mediately. These  three  villages  were  all  by  Le 
Cateau  and  that  battle  was  being  fought.  Half 
an  hour  after  noon  came  the  second  cold  douche 
— our  abrupt  flight  thence:  and  so,  for  many 
days,  the  great  Retreat. 

During  a  halt  of  several  hours,  on  that  first 
night,  more  wounded  came  in,  and  the  horrible 
rain  came  with  them:  our  camp  was  a  bogged 
stubble-field. 

By  eight  o  'clock  next  morning  we  were  in  St. 
Quentin,  where  our  wounded  were  ''evacuated," 
handed  over  to  a  Clearing  Hospital.  By  nine 
or  so  we  were  off  again :  in  the  afternoon,  I  think, 
the  Germans  arrived. 

By  Ozeley  we  came  to  Cugny,  and  at  six  next 
morning  were  off  once  more,  reaching  Noyon 
before  noon.  The  Ancient  had  leave  to  stay 
behind  for  an  hour,  and  so  was  able  to  see  that 
glorious  Cathedral,  like  some  huge  stone  caravel, 
drifted  down  from  the  middle  ages  and  moored 
to  this ;  a  stately  ship  of  memories  in  a  by- water 
of  time,  dozing  in  the  dreamy  yellow  light. 
Once  back  from  the  main  streets,  full  enough 
of  troops,  all  the  pleasant  prosperous  little  city 
seenied  asleep  in  peace.     In  a  few  hours  the 


FINIS  289 

Germans  came  to  wake  it,  and  have  stayed 
on. 

Over  the  Oise  bridge  the  Ancient  hurried  after 
his  unit,  and  got  a  lift.  On  a  gun-carriage  tliat 
had  no  gun  a  not  very  young  officer  was  huddled, 
trying  not  to  sleep  (for  seventy-six  hours,  I 
think  he  said,  he  had  had  no  sleep),  and  he  was 
trying  to  hold  the  bridle  of  his  horse  that  came 
stumbling  after  him,  also  trying  not  to  sleep. 
"Which  looked  weariest  ? 

The  officer  opened  heavy  eyes,  smiled  at  the 
dusty  Ancient,  and  patted  the  place  beside  him : 
and  fell  asleep  again.  So  the  Ancient  scrambled 
up,  and  took  the  horse's  bridle,  and  his  host 
lurched  against  him,  and  found  a  pillow  on  his 
shoulder. 

Not  far  over  the  bridge,  beyond  Pontoise 
village,  was  the  unit,  camped  in  a  field  by  the 
flat  road;  behind  were  scrubby  plantations,  to 
the  right  a  wood.  A  pleasant  place ;  and  pleasant 
things  happened  there — the  first  bath,  and  the 
first  letters.  Only  a  fortnight  without  any 
word  from  home,  and  it  seemed  a  generation. 
At  six  on  Saturday  evening  began  a  four-mile 
march  (that  lasted  five  hours)  to  Charlespont. 
Then,  three  hours'  sleep  at  the  top  of  the  ditch 
by  the  roadside,  and  at  half -past  two  off  again. 
It  was  Sunday,  but  our  march  did  not  end  at 


290  FRENCH  WINDOWS 

Coutroy  till  it  was  too  late  for  Mass:  however, 
we  had  a  service  in  the  village  church,  whence 
the  Cure  had  gone  to  serve  in  the  war.  That 
was  the  first  of  many  times  that  we  used  a 
French  church,  and  very  homely  it  seemed:  no 
Catholic  is  ever  a  foreigner  or  *'  abroad"  within 
the  walls  of  one  of  his  own  churches. 

In  a  lovely  morning  very  early  we  left  Coutroy 
village,  and  had  a  long  march  through  splendid 
country,  often  like  a  vast  park.  Close  by 
the  exquisite,  and  exquisitely  placed,  fortress- 
palace  of  Pierrefonds  we  passed,  shining  like  a 
Gargantuan  pearl  flung  among  emerald  folds  of 
forest  and  billowing  field.  Not  a  month  before, 
the  Ancient  had  been  the  guest  of  the  Imperial 
lady  who  takes  her  travelling-title  from  it,  and 
had  listened  to  her  wonderful  talk.  In  the  late 
afternoon  we  came  to  Crepy  en  Valois,  marched 
through  it,  and  camped  in  a  field  by  the  high 
road. 

The  Germans  were  following  close,  and  next 
morning  betimes  we  were  for  the  road  again. 
Through  Nanteuil  we  came  to  Ognes,  and 
camped  on  a  breezy  upland  stubble,  sloping 
down  to  green  clumps  of  plantation.  Before 
five  next  morning  we  were  on  the  road  to  Montge, 
and  ended  our  march  before  afternoon. 

The  evening  of  the  following  day  brought  us 


FINIS  291 

to  Montpichet,  where  we  had  another  cold 
douche — the  news  from  Paris  that  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  Republic  had  fled  to  Bordeaux. 
Was  it  1840  over  again  ?  In  180  the  French 
Government  had  not  at  first  taken  so  far  a  flight. 
Was  not  this  a  more  fateful  omen  1 

From  Montpichet  we  continued  our  retreat 
through  Tournau,  marching  all  night,  to  the 
Chateau  de  Monceaux,  where  we  arrived  in  the 
early  morning.  It  lies  hard  by  the  villages  of 
Liverdy  and  Cagny:  coming  out  of  the  church 
of  the  latter  the  Ancient  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  a  friend  and  neighbor,  an  officer  of 
artillery;  and  they  sat  among  the  tombs  and 
compared  notes. 

**  What  division  are  you  in  ?" 

*'  Were  you  at  Le  Cateau  ?  What  was  it 
like!" 

We  were  ordered  out  of  Monceaux  at  five  next 
morning:  but — oh,  joy  !  not  onwards:  'bout 
turn:  the  Retreat  was  over.  The  rest  of  our 
marches  had  the  Germans  in  front. 

They  were  wonderful  days  those  of  our  re- 
treat: of  breathless  interest,  and,  after  the 
very  first  hour  or  two,  singularly  cheerful,  in 
spite  of  all  the  douches.  The  men  vv^cre  always 
cheerful,  unquestioning,  confident.  It  was  a  big 
strategic    movement — perhaps    a    decoy:    they 


292  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

didn  't  know.  Anyway,  it  was  all  right ;  and  the 
marches  were  packed  with  interest :  the  road  al- 
ways worth  seeing.  The  troops  of  the  Eetreat 
saw  much  more  of  France  than  those  who  came 
afterwards,  and  our  men  like  to  be  moving  and 
seeing  things. 

Of  course  we  saw  no  papers :  we  had  no  news : 
our  talk  was  all  inter-unit:  we  never  knew  what 
other  Army  Corps,  other  Divisions,  even  other 
Brigades,  were  doing.  Some  of  us  never  knew 
what  we  were  doing  ourselves :  never  knew  where 
we  were  marching,  or,  very  clearly,  in  what  di- 
rection. The  maps  some  of  us  had  were  section- 
al, and  showed  only  the  day's  march,  or  less. 
When  we  were  nearest  Paris  some  of  us  hardly 
knew  we  were  near  it  at  all :  thousands  of  us,  I 
suspect,  had  no  idea  that  the  Germans  were  fol- 
lowing hot-foot  on  our  rear:  most,  so  far  as 
numbers  went,  had  no  notion,  as  I  believe,  that 
we  were  being  pushed. 

But  when  the  turn  came  we  soon  learned  that 
We  had  turned:  every  hour  brought  us  on  new 
traces  of  the  enemy,  who  had  been  where  we 
bow  were,  and  was  gone.  We  heard  of  him  in 
every  village,  and  saw  mementoes  of  his  passage 
everywhere.  He  was  close  in  front:  had  been 
here  yesterday,  last  night,  this  morning.  We 
had  not  re-taken  the  old  road.    We  had  come  all 


FINIS  293 

the  long  way  from  Mont  and  Belgium:  it  was 
to  the  Marne  we  were  hastening.  Before  we 
reached  Saacy,  and  crossed  it,  we  began  to  have 
German  soldiers  among  our  wounded:  soon  we 
began  to  see  German  dead  lying  on  the  ditch- 
heads,  and  among  the  underwood,  by  the  road- 
side. Before  we  crossed  the  Marne,  I  say,  at 
Saacy  and  Mery,  when  we  went  out  at  night  (as 
as  Charmesneuil)  wounded-hunting,  we  found 
German  soldiers,  dead,  dying,  stricken:  half- 
afraid,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  these  living,  to  be 
found. 

We  saw  large  batches  of  German  prisoners, 
unwounded.    Our  low-tide  was  passed. 

Then  came  the  Marne,  and  its  counter-tide: 
which  was  in  fact  the  first  announcement  of  the 
ultimate  decision  of  the  war.  But,  during  the 
actual  battle,  did  we  who  were  in  it  understand 
it  and  its  final  significance  1  Certainly  one  of 
us  did  not.  That  the  complexion  of  the  war's 
harsh  face  was  changed,  that  we  knew.  That 
Paris  was  saved  we  knew  very  soon.  That  this 
time  the  sang  impiir  was  not  to  stain  the  breast 
of  Lutetia  herself. 

The  Germans  in  front  must  now  be  moving  in 
hot  haste:  they  left  other  things  than  wounded 
behind  in  the  ditches  and  fields,  quantities  of 
arms  and  equipment,  waggons  full  of  clothing. 


294  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

blankets,  food,  and  boots.  Odd  things  some  of 
them  had  made  off  with,  and  now  abandoned — 
among  others  the  Ancient  saw  a  bulky,  highly 
vnportable,  standing  stereoscope  fitted  with 
hundreds  of  beautiful  slides  on  ground-glass, 
iarranged  on  an  ''endless  band  ":  it  was  strange 
to  look  through  the  twin  eye-holes  and  see  Ro- 
man streets  and  churches,  St.  Peter's,  the  Forum, 
the  Palatine;  Tivoli  and  the  temple  of  Vesta; 
Naples  and  the  Toledo ;  Marseilles  and  the  Can- 
nebiere;  Mont  Cervin  and  Mont  Blanc;  Coppet 
and  Mme.  de  Stael's  Villa— a  hundred  well-re- 
membered places.  Somebody  meant  it  for  the 
pride  (and  shame)  of  a  Teuton  home,  and  some- 
body had  had  a  slip  ''  twixt  cup  and  lip." 

Among  other  things  there  were  scores  and 
scores  of  pale,  sallow  blue  great-coats,  and  some 
of  them  one  of  us  gave  to  our  German  prisoners 
to  wrap  themselves  withal  against  the  cold  rain. 

By  Courcelles  and  Gandeloup  we  came  to 
Chezy-en-Ormois :  next  day,  through  savage  rain, 
to  Billy-en-Orques,  which  the  enemy  had  hur- 
ried through  a  few  hours  earlier.  On  the  mor- 
row by  St.  Eemy  and  Hartennes  to  Chacrise — 
and  now  the  Aisne  region  was  reached,  and  the 
long  Aisne  battle  begun.  From  Chacrise,  to 
Serches:  close  to,  but  hidden  from,  the  Aisne. 
For  a  fortnight,  on  the  plateau  called  Monte  de 


FINIS  295 

Soissons.  The  fortnight  seemed  an  autumn: 
and  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  to  be  always  there ; 
but  quite  suddenly  we  were  for  the  road  again. 
And  there  came  the  third  period  of  daily  march- 
ings— only  they  were  nightly.  Every  night  we 
marched ;  through  tall  and  eerie  forests,  through 
mist,  through  thick  moonless  darkness,  through 
exquisite  moonlit  midnights,  through  nights  of 
clear  cold  and  frost  and  stars.  By  day  we  rested 
and  kept  cover:  and  cross-ways  the  French  were 
moving  to  take  our  place  upon  the  Aisne;  we 
were  hastening  with 

"...  unperturbed    chase. 
Deliberate   speed,    majestic   instancy " 

north ;  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  Gates  of  Calais. 
No  fear  of  confusing  the  memories  of  those 
marches  with  the  first:  all  was  different.  The 
first  hang  always  in  a  harvest-glow  of  cloudless 
heat,  dust,  brazen  light.  The  last  in  a  strange 
night-silence,  mist-wrapped,  or  in  a  cold  splen- 
dour of  frost  and  moon :  thus ;  Mont  de  Soissons 
to  Droizy,  a  short  march,  through  fields  of 
frozen  fog.  Droizy  to  Longpoint — arriving  with 
a  sort  of  stage  moon  silvering  an  enormous  pile 
of  stage  ruins,  too  splendid  to  seem  true.  Long- 
pont  to  Lieu  Restaure,  and  another  abby,  not 
at  all  restaurs.    To  Bethisy  St.  Martin.    To  Le 


296  FEENCH  WINDOWS 

Meux;  and  there  entrained.  A  long  night  of 
horrible  cold  in  a  train  unwarmed,  with  broken 
windows,  and  relentless  frost  outside.  At  Pont 
Remy  detrained,  and  day-marches  resumed, 
plenty  of  them,  enough  to  see  us  into  French 
Flanders,  and  over  the  frontier  into  Flanders 
of  Belgium.  And  so  winter,  and  the  ending  of 
that  first  stage  of  the  war. 

It  would  take  a  book  to  describe  that  first 
stage  in  its  mere  itinerary,  without  expanding 
into  episode — such  wayside  episodes  as  make 
this  book  up.  Books  have  been  already  written 
about  it;  but  mostly,  I  suppose,  real  war-books, 
by  men  qualified  to  write  such ;  this  one,  as  was 
said  long  ago  at  its  outset,  makes  no  claim  to  be 
of  that  sort.  It  sets  down  little  things,  leaving 
the  big  things  to  other  writers  able  to  treat  of 
them:  its  appeal  is  not  to  the  war-student,  but 
to  simple  folk  like  the  writer,  who  may  care  to 
hear  of  other  simple  folk  who  came  his  way,  met 
him,  and  passed  on,  on  the  high-way  of  the  war 
— with  whom,  living  or  dead,  be  Peace. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  276  222    7 


